


The Magic of Music

by riveroflava



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco plays the piano, Hero Complex, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, Nightmares, Slow Burn, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riveroflava/pseuds/riveroflava
Summary: Harry’s magic seems to like hexing people, destroying things, creating disasters, and... listening to Malfoy play piano.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 109
Kudos: 329





	1. Discovery

Harry gasped awake, throat raw from yelling and skin covered in a cold sweat. He fumbled around the nightstand for his glasses, pulling them on in the dark. Where was his wand? He tried an  _ accio _ and it flew across the room to smack him in the forehead. He cautiously cast a  _ Lumos _ , then hastily  _ Nox _ ed it as the light nearly blinded him. 

Ah. It was one of those times then. 

The state of his room was obvious, even in the dark. Harry was naturally messy, but not so messy that he did things like randomly leave the bed curtains on the other side of the room. His trunk seemed to have been upended during the night, its contents covering the floor. The door to the en-suite restroom was half-torn off its hinges, and it sounded like water was leaking from somewhere inside. 

Harry took a few calming breaths, willing his mind to settle. Hermione’s voice coached him in his head to inhale, exhale. His magic had been acting up since the war ended, he knew, but it had only gotten worse since returning to Hogwarts for his Eighth Year. It was getting embarrassing in public, but accidental magic during a nightmare was new-- then again, so were the nightmares. Ron and ‘Mione had confiscated his Dreamless Sleep supply, and this was where it got him, room disheveled and wide awake in the middle of the night. 

The  _ Lumos _ this time was still bright, but softer, and he used it long enough to gather a couple things and make his way to the door. Harry closed the door behind him, casting the strongest locking charm he knew. With the state his magic was in, he was unsure he’d even be able to undo it later, but the last time he had forgotten-- well.

No matter how hard he tried to dodge their attention, the wizarding world seemed incapable of leaving him alone, and the Hogwarts student body had been no exception. He supposed the charms they cast on his room came from adoration, but if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought they were meant to be pranks. He still hadn’t gotten his mirror to stop talking about how  _ lovely _ his green eyes were. Perhaps he’d shattered it while he slept. Might be an improvement.

Slipping under the Invisibility Cloak, he made his way out of the Eighth Year dormitory and into the halls of the castle. Harry drew the Marauder’s Map from his pocket, unfolding it carefully to find the spot he was in. He intended to explore. Perhaps trying to find new secret passageways would stop him from wondering if this was the hallway Remus died in, or where it was Colin Creevy took his final stand. He traced his finger along one of the corridors in the dungeons. 

_ Draco Malfoy _ . His dot stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of a large, unlabeled room. Harry was moving before he realized what he was doing, his legs automatically carrying him towards the nearest staircase. 

Malfoy had returned to Hogwarts as part of the terms of his probation following the trials, but this was one of the few times Harry had any proof of that. Before— well,  _ before _ — it felt like Harry and Malfoy revolved around one another, two sides of the same coin, dealing with the same choices in very different circumstances, their worlds constantly pushing and pulling on one another. 

Now, Malfoy was conspicuously absent. Harry felt off during meals, looking up to trade glares across the Great Hall only to find Malfoy’s seat empty. The insults never came from the opposite side of the hallway, the passing shoves on the way to class were gone. Their rooms were right next to each other in the Eighth year dormitory, yet the only time Harry ever saw him was during classes, and that was if he really  _ looked _ for him.

Whenever Harry did see him, Malfoy looked like Harry felt: tired, broken, riddled with grief. He kept his head down and his walls up. 

Ron and Hermione had noticed Harry’s state, but he didn’t know how to explain it to them-- normal life seemed close enough to touch. The dead were buried, the criminals behind bars, witches and wizards were starting work again, and the students were back at Hogwarts. Everyone, including his best friends, was settling into whatever their new normal was.

Except for Harry. Harry didn’t feel whole, or remotely healed-- there was something missing, still. He didn’t know where to look for it, but as he descended Hogwarts’s stairs, he decided to start with Malfoy. He didn’t think he was looking for confrontation or accusations, necessarily, but at this point, a spark of  _ anything _ would be a relief. 

Harry turned down the hallway with the room Malfoy was in and paused, folding the Map and tucking it into his pocket. He made his way down the hallway, ducking his head into each room he passed. Malfoy was at the end of the corridor, he knew, but he’d never been in this part of the castle before. The rooms were dark, though, and he decided to come back at a time when a  _ Lumos _ wouldn’t give him away. 

He reached the door at the end and contemplated it. It was an old wooden thing, closed, with light seeping through the gaps. Harry didn’t dare risk an unlocking charm-- with his magic in the state it was in, the door would probably just burst open. 

Harry bit his lip, praying to Merlin that Malfoy hadn’t cursed the door, and slowly turned the knob. He let out a breath of relief when he remained unharmed, and cautiously pushed the door open, slipping inside. 

_ Oh _ . Malfoy sat at the bench of a grand piano, his back to the door. Harry realized he must have crossed the threshold of a silencing spell as he’d come in, suddenly surrounded by music. The melody was soft, mournful yet sweet, and Harry stood frozen, transfixed. 

Was this what Malfoy did during all that time Harry didn’t see him? Shut himself in a room in the dungeons, playing music for no one to hear? Harry gently closed the door behind himself, then walked tentatively into the room, keeping along the walls, well away from the piano. 

Malfoy brought the piece he was playing to an end, the sound growing quieter and quieter until his long fingers stopped moving across the keys. His eyes were closed, brows furrowed, and he sat completely still. 

Harry’s heart pounded. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, unmoving, but it felt like an eternity. Harry knew Malfoy’s expressions, and this was the one that told him Malfoy was warring with himself, undecided about something. He seemed to come to a conclusion because he positioned his hands over different keys and began to play again. 

Harry let out a breath, relieved. He leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground. Malfoy’s eyes were open now, a determined expression on his face, and the song he played now was intense, a fight woven into piano notes. Harry’s throat tightened as he listened, the piece dragging him back to the Final Battle. The music grew louder, Malfoy approaching the peak, and spells flew in Harry’s mind’s eye. 

He was duelling Voldemort again, it was the final stand-off, and the bright red of Harry’s _ Expelliarmus  _ collided with the green of Voldemort’s  _ Avada Kedavra _ . Voldemort fell as the music broke, but the notes weren’t joyful or triumphant. Rather, they sounded exactly how Harry had felt after the battle: there was relief, and exhaustion, and pain. It was beautiful, somehow. 

Harry was sure, now: Malfoy understood. He went to stand as the song seemed to end, thinking to leave Malfoy to his piano-playing but stopped when he heard something like a lullaby drifting around him, and Harry settled back onto the floor. Ah, well, maybe he’d stay a little longer. 

\-- 

Draco focused on the piano keys, desperately trying to ignore Potter’s magic, pressing in on all sides. It was calmer, now, but no less  _ alive _ than it had been when Potter first walked in. 

He’d almost said something, earlier, but held his tongue. If Potter wanted to stay hidden, he’d let him. There was a tentative peace between them, even if Potter didn’t know Draco had agreed to it, and Draco wanted to protect it. 

He played on.


	2. Accident

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione stood in his doorway, taking in the mess. Harry sat up on his bed, blinking blearily at her. 

“Harry, we’re going to be late for breakfa—” Ron cut himself off as he followed Hermione into the room. His eyes widened as he looked around. “Mate, what happened?”

In the light of day, Harry’s room looked a lot worse than it had the night before. The wardrobe stood with its doors open wide, completely empty with its contents strewn across the floor. The curtains to Harry’s four-poster had all been ripped off their grommets and sliced to shreds. His school books were strewn haphazardly around the room, pages torn out at random. Harry leaned forward a bit to peer into the restroom, smiling grimly when he saw that he had, indeed, shattered that awful talking mirror. He flopped back down on his bed. 

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Hermione flicked her wand, sending his clothes flying back towards the wardrobe. “It’s your accidental magic again.” 

Harry nodded. “I had a nightmare last night and it just—” he waved his hands around to indicate what happened. 

Harry knew why Hermione looked relieved, hearing that: nightmares meant he hadn’t taken Dreamless Sleep. The day before, after discovering that he had been taking it each night, she had lectured him for hours about the dangers of the potion. Harry hadn’t yet experienced any of the gruesome side-effects of long-term use that she described, but he’d only let her get halfway through the list before handing over every vial he had in his room. 

“It’s alright, ‘Mione,” Harry cut her off before she could say anything. He sighed. “I just don’t much fancy having my entire room torn apart each night.”

Hermione bit her lip, looking down. “Of course not, Harry. We’ll think of something.” She turned and continued to make her way around the room, putting Harry’s things back to rights. Ron unfroze after a moment, then drew his wand to help, fixing the door to the en-suite and ducking inside.

Harry stood to help, levitating a pair of boots down from the ceiling rafters. He thought as they worked in silence. The night before, he had stayed in the dungeons until Malfoy stopped playing, the last notes of a peaceful song fading to silence. He watched Malfoy return to his room in the Eighth Year dormitory on the Map, then trudged up the stairs himself. By the time that Harry made it back to his room the night before, he’d only had time for another couple hours of sleep. 

The nightmares hadn’t returned. 

Perhaps Harry would have convinced himself to ponder what that meant, but he was distracted instead by Ron reemerging from the en-suite noticeably damper than he had entered it. “Shower’s fixed,” Ron said, “But sorry, mate, I repaired the mirror and it’s doing the chattering thing again. My eyes are dull compared to yours, apparently.” He leaned forward and squinted at Harry, as if to assess for himself the validity of the claim. 

Harry rolled his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ron, nothing about me could ever be as vibrant as that mop of yours.” He ruffled Ron’s hair, ignoring his protests. He stepped past him to grab a fresh set of robes from his now-reassembled wardrobe. “Breakfast?”

Harry changed quickly, ignoring the chattering of the mirror as he freshened up the Muggle way. He’d never quite gotten the hang of breath-freshening charms, and he didn’t trust his magic enough to try it right then. Toothbrush it was, then. 

The three headed out, locking and warding Harry’s room as they left. They rounded the corner into the Common Room, making plans to go through the library that afternoon to study. As soon as they stepped through the tapestry that covered the Eighth Year dormitory entrance, a black blur raced towards them. 

Harry’s magic acted before he could even draw his wand, casting a more powerful  _ Portego _ than he’d ever seen. By the time the  _ Portego _ fizzled, the black blur had become one of the Third Year Hufflepuff girls, sprawled on her back in the middle of the corridor. 

“Fuck,” Harry said eloquently. His friends raced forward to help the girl, but he held back, blood rushing in his ears. He shook his head, willing himself to  _ Breathe, Harry, in, and out. In and out.  _ It took a moment before the adrenaline rush faded and he refocused, trusting himself to walk forward to kneel in front of the girl. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you alright, er—sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Olivia,” she said with wide eyes. “But everyone calls me Liv.”

“Alright, Liv, are you okay? I’m sorry, you took me by surprise.”

She nodded, looking dazed in a way that had nothing to do with the fall. “I was looking for you, actually.” Liv tore her eyes away from him to look around before pointing triumphantly. “There! I wanted to give you some chocolate, in that box there.” She seemed to be recovering quickly, Harry noted. “I was wondering—“ she hesitated, glancing at Ron and Hermione as if she wished they would leave, “I was wondering if you might be free this Saturday. It’s our first Hogsmeade weekend and—“

“Thanks,” Harry cut her off quickly. She was  _ thirteen, _ for Merlin’s sake.  _ And a girl, _ a niggling voice in the back of his head reminded him. He ignored it. 

Harry barely thought about reaching for the box of chocolates before his magic  _ Accio’ _ ed them, nearly taking out his eye. He gently pushed them into her hands and helped her stand. “I’m flattered, really, but I don’t think so.” He avoided the disappointment in her eyes, looking to Hermione for help and backing away with Ron. 

Hermione turned to Liv, making sure she didn’t have any injuries. “Probably love-potioned those chocolates,” Ron muttered to him, looking at the box distrustfully. “Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.”

Harry nodded, but felt on edge for an entirely different reason. He knew that his magic had been acting up, making him cast spells stronger than he meant to and reacting easily to his emotions. But making flowers sprout everywhere on the Quidditch pitch was one thing. This was another. His accidental magic was dangerous now, destroying his room while he slept and knocking an innocent Third Year across the hallway. 

Hermione hurried over to join them, a determined glint in her eye that promised an afternoon of grueling research in the library. She dragged them towards the Great Hall, saying something about dealing with things after they’d eaten. 

Harry looked at his wand uneasily and pocketed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> draco’s coming back soon, don’t worry :)


	3. Help

“Alright,” Hermione said, scanning her notes one last time. “That should be all of them.” 

She had just finished putting up the last of the wards around Harry’s bed. The three of them had spent the afternoon researching ways to help control Harry’s accidental magic. They faced a series of dead ends: most material on accidental magic focused on children, whose magic sought outlets since they were too young to use a wand. The few cases they found of accidental magic in adults were the ones who were similarly unable to channel their magic through a wand, perhaps because they were never introduced to the magical community, or because their wand was snapped. 

None of it applied to Harry. He was no longer a child, he had a fully functioning wand, and he used his magic regularly. By all accounts, his magic  _ should _ be under control. 

Since their search for answers about accidental magic was fruitless, this was what they had resorted to: warding Harry and his magic into a tight bubble, protecting the rest of his room from harm. The wards would disappear once he woke up again. 

It would have to do for the time being. Hermione and Ron bid him goodnight, locking the door behind them. Harry tossed and turned fitfully, sure he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep.

\-- 

Harry awoke slowly, shaking slightly and heart racing. Nightmare slowly separated from reality and Harry became aware of how  _ everything hurt.  _ Well. Apparently he had been able to fall asleep, but now he regretted it. 

Grudgingly, Harry pried his eyes open to an absolutely  _ destroyed _ bed. His pajamas were shredded, the wooden bed frame was splintered, and the curtains were nowhere in sight. He lifted his head to assess the rest of the room, relieved when he saw that the wards had held.

He rolled over and groaned. Harry cautiously pressed a couple fingers against the sharp pain in his side, grimacing when they found a particularly painful spot. With nowhere else to go, it seemed his magic had turned on himself. He set his jaw and pushed himself out of bed and into the bathroom. 

It hurt, but he successfully stripped the ruined pajamas off and looked down at himself, completely at a loss. There were marks covering his body, striping back and forth across his skin like a bloodless  _ Sectumsempra _ , they were  _ glowing _ , and better yet, they  _ hurt _ . Harry lightly prodded at a few, discovering that the brighter ones hurt more. The one across his stomach glowed the brightest. 

Harry didn’t trust himself with his wand right then, but even if he had, he wouldn’t know what spell to cast, so he pulled open the potions cabinet on the wall. He wasn’t sure if everyone had a stock of healing potions in their room, or if the house elves kept one for him because of his susceptibility to danger and injury. Either way, he was grateful for it right then, pulling out jars and bottles at random.

None of the potions were specifically for glowing accidental magical injuries, funnily enough, so Harry haphazardly smeared a couple pastes over them and downed a pain potion, hoping for the best. It would have to be enough for now, he decided, and headed back out to his room to hunt for new pajamas. 

Once dressed, Harry sat gingerly at his desk. A quick  _ Tempus _ told him he’d only been out for a couple hours, but he didn’t want to go anywhere near his bed, much less go back to sleep in it. His nightmare was still fresh on his mind, and besides, Hermione had taken the list of necessary wards with her. Who knew what would happen if he went back to sleep. He was wide awake and antsy, anyways. Sleeping wasn’t an option. 

The pain potion had started working, so Harry stood and cast his gaze aimlessly around the room. His eyes caught on the Marauder’s Map, sitting innocently on his desk. 

With a split-second decision—what was Harry, if not impulsive?— he was pocketing the map, grabbing the Cloak from the hook by his door, and escaping his dormitory for the dark corridors of Hogwarts’s dungeons. 

\--

Draco tensed at the piano when Potter’s magic suddenly filled the room. It felt angry, agitated, needling at Draco’s skin and practically sparking where it collided with Draco’s own magical core. He swallowed. He knew Potter had been having trouble controlling his magic, but he didn’t know it had gotten  _ that _ bad.

The song he had been playing was light-hearted, but Potter’s magic quickly took over, morphing it into something sharper. Draco gave in quickly, letting it guide him, fingers flying over the keys, the tempo quickening and volume increasing. 

Potter’s magic pulled him along, and he could feel it spinning and jumping around him, the angry edge wearing away as it flowed with the music. Draco followed the magic’s lead as it changed the tone of the music time and time again, flitting through emotion after emotion. It was playful one moment and remorseful the next, unable to stay still for long. 

Draco sunk into the melody. The rest of the room, the heavy dungeon air, and even the prickling on the back of his neck from Potter’s presence melted away, leaving Draco, the piano, and Potter’s magic to dance in perfect step, never missing a beat. 

Draco was so entranced that an hour, a day, a  _ week _ could have passed, and he wouldn’t have noticed. Slowly, though, he came back to himself, feeling the way that Potter’s magic had grown sluggish, finally having tired itself out. Draco took control of the song, tentatively at first and with growing confidence when the magic relaxed instead of fighting back.

He began playing the same lullaby as the night before, feeling Potter’s magic settle and begin to recede. Draco felt like he was rocking it to sleep, coaxing it back to Harry’s core. He played until he was sure it was back under Potter’s control. He could still feel it thrumming softly, but it was contentedly bundled into the corner of the room that Potter was huddled into. 

Draco’s hands stilled and silence reigned. He opened his eyes, not realizing they had been closed in the first place, and looked around. Potter’s corner was empty. 

“Potter?” His voice was hoarse, unsteady. No response. 

Draco stood, careful to not make any noise. He walked slowly towards that corner, heart pounding as he centered in on Potter’s magical core. “Potter?” He whispered again, crouching down. He couldn’t see anything, but Potter’s magic gave him away, letting Draco sense how he was curled against the wall right in front of him. 

Draco reached out. His fingers snagged on a soft, slippery material, and he pulled gently, fighting to control his expression as an Invisibility Cloak fell away to reveal a sleeping Potter. 

Everything in him screamed  _ Back away! _ but he felt bound in place, staring at Potter’s unconscious form. His black hair was as messy as always, and his glasses were crooked on his nose. He was folded into himself, arms wrapped protectively around his knees, and Draco’s eyes kept getting dragged back to the way Potter’s brow was furrowed.

Draco bit his lip and looked over his shoulder at the door. He couldn’t just  _ leave _ Potter there, could he? He looked back at Potter and deflated. No, he couldn’t. It would surely give away the fact that he knew Potter had snuck down to listen to him play, but… Potter looked so broken and vulnerable, curled into the corner. He was tense, even in his sleep. 

Besides, Draco thought as he stood, it was cold in the dungeon, and he couldn’t have Potter getting sick from spending a night down there. He shuddered to think of the chaos Potter’s accidental magic would cause if he started sneezing everywhere. 

He draped the Invisibility Cloak over himself-- no use getting caught and immediately expelled just for trying to help-- then stepped away from Potter, drawing his wand. Praying to Merlin that Potter was a heavy sleeper, Draco cast a levitation charm on him, focusing intently. 

Potter stirred a bit as he was lifted off the ground, and Draco froze until Potter settled, having found a more comfortable sleeping position for floating. Draco kept his wand trained on him and started walking. 

Draco made the journey back to the Eighth Year dormitory carefully, cursing under his breath every time he nearly let Potter bump into a wall. After what felt like forever, he came to a stop in front of Potter’s room. He regarded Potter’s door for a moment, then decided to just try the handle. It turned easily. He’d thought Potter would be more careful about locking his room, but then he remembered how unruly Potter’s magic had been, and thought that maybe locking his door was the last thing on Potter’s mind when he’d left his room that night.

Draco pushed the door open and backed into it slowly, levitating Potter in behind him. He turned towards the bed, intending to deposit Potter there, and stopped, sucking in a breath. The bed looked like it shouldn’t even still be standing, balancing on a crooked frame and every piece of fabric on it torn apart. 

Draco lowered Potter down onto the rug in the middle of the room, watching for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t wake up. He released the levitation charm, then turned back to the bed. Well, he’d come this far, he figured; might as well go all in.

He set the sheets to stitching themselves back together and rehung the curtains after finding them somehow stuck under the mattress. He reinforced the frame, setting it to rights and strengthening the charms that held it together. Once the sheets were finished, he made the bed as well as he could, forgetting the spells that would do it for him. 

Hands on his hips, he decided that while it still looked a little crooked, the bed looked sleepable. He pulled back a corner of the sheets, then looked at Potter, who was still sleeping soundly behind him. Draco levitated him once again, depositing him on the bed, then pulled the sheets up to his chin. 

Draco delicately slid Potter’s glasses off, then set them on the nightstand. Potter’s hair covered his scar and his tense expression had finally smoothed. He could have been a completely different person, Draco thought. 

Perhaps recognizing that he was back in a soft bed, Potter stretched out and shifted onto his back, and Draco frowned, noticing something strange. Watching Potter’s face cautiously, he nudged at Potter’s collar a bit. 

There were marks peeking from beneath Potter’s collar, reaching up his neck and  _ glowing.  _ They looked strangely beautiful, Draco thought. He could feel the magic pulsing through them and reached out to touch, entranced. 

Draco choked, jerking his hand away as reality came crashing back. What was he doing? He almost tripped over himself as he backed away in horror. Even bringing Potter back to his room was a risk-- who knew how he would react when he realized what happened? He undid the clasp of the Invisibility Cloak with fumbling fingers, then hung it on the cloak rack by the door. 

Casting one final glance at Potter’s sleeping form, Draco left. 

  
  



	4. Truce

“Oh, honey,” the mirror said, “Those do  _ not _ look too good.” 

“I know,” Harry snapped. He was shirtless in the bathroom, twisting this way and that to look at the marks covering his body. 

There was a nasty one across his shoulder blades that he hadn’t noticed before. Though— nasty wasn’t the right word for it, was it? The slashes didn’t break skin and they were still glowing, for Merlin’s sake. Perhaps ‘nasty’ could account for the pain, though that wouldn’t be accurate anymore, either. They hadn’t hurt since he’d woken up. 

Harry didn’t know what to do about them except get dressed. He checked his reflection in the mirror, tugging at his collar until he was sure none of the marks were visible. He’d already decided that this was the type of problem that he’d put off handling until later, and that included avoiding drawing any attention to them. 

“Now that you’ve covered up, perhaps you could do something about that hair,” the mirror suggested. Harry glared at it. The enchantment on it had been messed up since Ron had repaired it the day before, and its comments had turned from disgustingly flattering to annoyingly snide. 

The door to Harry’s room slammed open with a  _ Bang!  _ and Harry’s magic lashed out before he could react, shattering the mirror again. Harry nearly doubled over from a sudden pain in his side, his hand automatically closing over his wand, ready to attack the intruder if necessary. 

“Harry?” Ron’s voice called from his room. All the adrenaline drained out of him and he huffed out a laugh, cut short by that pain in his side. 

“Mate, would it kill you to knock?” Harry was stalling, but he  _ had _ to look, so he pulled his shirt up to stare at the new slash across his ribcage. This one deserved to be characterized as ‘nasty’, he decided, cursing under his breath as he prodded it and immediately regretted it.  _ Fuck _ , it hurt. But this was a problem to be added to the list to handle later because Ron was still waiting outside, so he tucked his shirt back into his trousers and opened the bathroom door.

Ron grinned sheepishly, looking at least a little bit sorry. “Got to keep you on your toes, don’t I?” He eyed the mess of shards at Harry’s feet. “Talking mirrors hiding in every dark alleyway, you know.” 

“Faced off with a few, myself.” Harry couldn’t help but grin back. “Dangerous characters.”

Hermione appeared in the doorway. “Oh, good, Harry, you’re awake! And your room is in one piece! And  _ you’re  _ in one piece. It worked, then?”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. Harry didn’t think he wanted to tell her and Ron the full truth yet, so he just smiled. “You were brilliant, as always, Hermione.”

She scoffed and pulled him into a tight hug. He tried not to grimace, ignoring the pain shooting through that mark on his side as best as he could. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. He wished she were right, but if he was going to tell her the truth before, he certainly wasn’t going to now. 

He couldn’t. Harry wanted Ron and Hermione to worry about their homework and their NEWTs and what the house elves were serving for dessert in the Great Hall. He wanted to see Ron apply to the Aurors and Hermione to the Ministry, struggling with the entry-level woes of the jobs that were the start of their dream careers. He wanted them to be disgustingly in love with each other, get engaged and married (he had a running bet with Ginny on who would propose first), and he wanted them to fight over whose turn it was to make dinner. 

In short, he wanted them to be able to worry about normal things, now that the war was over, and  _ glowing accidental magic injuries _ didn’t fall into that category. Nor did  _ the former Death Eater might be saving the Savior, _ which he hadn’t even had time to think through on his own yet. Harry was done springing new problems on them.

This was their chance to get out, and Harry wanted to give it to them. So he didn’t say anything, still trapped in Hermione’s hug. He patted her back awkwardly. 

“Thanks, ‘Mione.”

She let him go and drew her wand, looking behind him. “You’ve broken your mirror again,” she said, casting a quick  _ Reparo _ . The pieces floated up and back into place until it was whole again. “See? Good as new.”

“Well,” the mirror drawled, “I don’t know if I’d say  _ that _ was true for everyone here, have you  _ seen _ the—”

The mirror shattered yet again. Harry lowered his wand and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t feel it. “It kept insulting my hair this morning, and I’ve decided I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. I want a new mirror.” 

They must have believed him, because they just teased him and dragged him down to breakfast.

\--

Harry was jumpy all day but hid it well, he thought. Well enough, at least, that Hermione only made him run through the pronunciation of each spell twice before she handed the list of wards over that evening. She smiled tiredly and made him promise to get her if he had any trouble with them and headed to bed, hand in hand with Ron. 

Once Harry got back to his room, he set Hermione’s notes on his nightstand, thinking that if he left them there, it might look like he actually used them. The memory of his disheveled bed was enough to convince him not to.

The burning of the marks under his clothing was enough to make him consider the other option. 

The marks had gotten progressively worse since that morning. At every burst of accidental magic, Harry felt another twinge of pain. It felt like reopening a wound every time, but instead of blood flowing out, it was his magic. 

It grew steadily harder to control throughout the day, and by the end of it, Harry was all too aware of each and every mark. He refused to take another pain potion; he was sure the list of horrifying side-effects Hermione could come up with would be twice as long as the one for Dreamless Sleep had been. 

Draco Malfoy was his solution. 

Malfoy had found out about Harry spying on him while he played, he was sure of it. It must have been Malfoy that brought Harry back up to his room after he’d fallen asleep in the dungeons, Malfoy that fixed his bed, and Malfoy that had folded Harry’s glasses on the nightstand and hung his cloak on the rack. All of the nightmare-free sleep Harry had gotten over the last two days had been because of Malfoy, and it was only Malfoy that had been able to calm Harry’s magic and soothe the marks on his skin. 

Malfoy had been elusive as always that day, and Harry hadn’t confronted him. He was too wrapped up in keeping the marks covered and hurriedly undoing the effects of his accidental magic before anyone noticed the butterflies in Hermione’s hair or the potions jar he’d broken. 

The marks criss-crossing his skin  _ burned _ , demanding that he not resist temptation any longer, and Harry decided that it was time to face the music. Literally, he hoped. 

Harry traded his uniform for a comfortable sweatshirt and joggers, then spread the Marauder’s Map across his desk, searching for Malfoy’s dot. His heart dropped when it wasn’t in the normal room, at first, but he quickly found it on one of the staircases heading down to the dungeons. 

_ Gotcha,  _ Harry thought. He swept out the door, armed with Map, wand, and Cloak. 

\--

Draco sat on the piano bench, waiting, wondering if this was a terrible idea. 

It had been all he could do to stay away from Potter that day, watching helplessly as Potter’s magic grew stronger with every passing hour, filling the room until it was almost tangible. Draco had looked around helplessly—could no one else feel it? 

It didn’t let him forget about Potter’s crooked glasses and how he’d been so tense in his sleep. He wondered about the marks he’d seen on Potter’s neck, and whether they were still glowing or not. The questions needled at him, so he escaped Potter’s presence at every opportunity to keep himself from asking them. 

It was that same intense need to  _ know _ that drove him back to the piano in the dungeons. Potter knew that Draco knew about Potter listening to him play, then had proceeded to carry him back to his room like the knight in shining armor he wasn’t, and  _ Merlin _ , what was Draco  _ thinking _ , coming down there?

The bench scraped against stone as he stood abruptly with every intention to leave and go back to his room in the Eighth Year dormitory and curl into a ball until he could forget about Potter and his stupid glasses and this whole frustrating, awful experience and—

Potter’s magic flooded the room, crashing against him like a tidal wave, and Draco closed his eyes against the force of it. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Potter stood behind him in the doorway. Gripping the piano, he willed himself to speak, to move, to do  _ something _ . 

Potter saved him, as usual. “Malfoy,” he said. Okay, Draco could work with that. He searched for his voice. 

“Potter.” He was proud of how not-strangled it sounded. Potter was silent for a moment, then walked forward, coming up beside the piano. Draco forced himself to open his eyes, to look at him. Potter was staring at the chair that Draco had conjured when he’d first arrived that night. It was an ugly thing, Draco thought, and regretted making it, but Potter didn’t seem to mind, eyes flicking to meet Draco’s as he plopped himself down.

Draco sat on the piano bench, far more graceful, but he was also sure his heart was pounding loudly enough for Potter to hear it. He looked down at the black and white keys, then up at Potter. 

Potter’s gaze held a challenge. “Scared, Malfoy?” 

_ Yes, _ Draco thought, but then Potter’s magic danced around him hopefully and he could see part of a glowing stripe on Potter’s neck and there was something in Potter’s eyes that hadn’t been there in a while. 

“You wish.” It came out rather scathing, if Draco did say so himself, and he even found a smirk playing across his lips. 

Draco turned back to the piano and played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm.. does this qualify as a slow burn yet?


	5. Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet! enjoy :)

Draco wasn’t sure whether he should be flattered or annoyed that Potter kept falling asleep while he played. On the one hand, the music he played always ended with something soft, meant to lull Potter’s magic into a peaceful state. On the other, it meant that it was left up to Draco to bring him back up to the Eighth Year dormitory and put him to bed. 

Looking down at Potter’s sleeping form, Draco sighed, defeated, knowing full well that it wasn’t something that he was actually that annoyed about.

Harry Potter was not the scrawny boy he’d been at eleven, Draco noticed all over again as he scooped him up. He was actually quite muscular. Then Draco desperately tried to  _ un _ -notice that fact. He’d cast a weightless charm precisely so he didn’t have to worry about how completely non-scrawny Potter was, so what did it matter anyways?  _ Focus, Draco, _ he chided himself.  _ You don’t want to trip again, do you? _

The first time it happened, he’d been thinking about Potter’s crooked smile and how it lined up perfectly with his crooked glasses when he reached the top of the stairs without realizing it, having to stumble forward to catch himself. Potter would have fallen down a couple flights worth of stairs if Draco hadn’t been able to cast another levitation charm last second. He knelt there, wand trained on Potter, shaking. 

_ No more levitation charms, _ he decided right then. If Potter thought that falling asleep in the dungeons was a good idea, he could put up with Draco carrying him to bed. Honestly, Draco didn’t mind. 

Potter shifted in his sleep, tucking his face further into Draco’s neck. Draco suppressed a smile, gripping him tighter. He definitely didn’t mind. 

After depositing Potter in his room, Draco retreated to his own, climbing into his own bed, feeling like he was turning a time-turner once again. Every day had been the same for the last couple weeks: they would ignore each other throughout the day, Draco slipping in and out of classes unnoticed while Potter struggled to control his magic more and more. 

Draco would wait for Potter to come to the dungeons each night, magic practically boiling around him. They didn’t talk much—nothing beyond simple greetings— and it bothered Draco, even if he didn’t know what else he would have to say to Potter. So instead of talking, Draco would play the piano for him, harnessing Potter’s magic with care. Magic safely contained once again, Potter would fall asleep, and Draco would carry him back to his room, feeling pathetic, wishing that he didn’t have to let him go. 

\--

Harry had a plan, and stealing one of the common room chairs was the first step. 

Standing against one of the walls, covered by the Cloak, he eyed his target. It was a rather understated chair, comfy but faded, its original bright purple color having been lost to time. It was big enough to relax into and not in such high demand that its temporary disappearance would cause too much of a commotion. 

The common room had just emptied. Harry glanced at his watch. It was nearly time to head down to meet Malfoy, so it was now or never. He began to walk forward, then cursed and backwheeled as Dean and Seamus burst through the tapestry that covered the common room entrance. 

“Give it back,” Dean said, laughing. 

“Absolutely not.” Seamus backed away with both hands hidden behind him, a grin stretching from ear to ear. 

“I’m the only reason we even  _ found _ that passageway—”

“You’re also the only reason we got caught,” Seamus interjected. 

“—so I think I deserve at least half the spoils.”

They stood in a silent standoff across the room, sizing each other up. Then Dean’s eyes narrowed suddenly and he leapt forward, tackling Seamus to the ground. They tussled, both laughing maniacally. Seamus tossed what he had been holding far out of reach—two bars of Honeydukes finest, Harry saw—just as Dean gained the upper hand, pinning Seamus to the ground. 

“Alright, alright, gerroff,” Seamus tried to complain, but Harry could hear the note of amusement in his voice. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean said, using Seamus’s words against him. He leaned down close to Seamus and Seamus wrinkled his nose. “Not until I get an apology. A  _ proper  _ one.”

Seamus rolled his eyes good-naturedly, grin returning to his face. He picked his head up, closing the distance between them. Harry, hidden under his Cloak, stood in slack-jawed surprise.  _ Dean and Seamus were snogging _ . He looked around helplessly at the otherwise empty common room.  _ Dean and Seamus were snogging _ . 

Finally, they broke apart. Seamus wiggled a bit, asking to be let free, which Dean did only once he had retrieved the chocolates from where Seamus had flung them. He held them both up with a smirk, raising his eyebrows before turning and running off towards the dormitories. Seamus scrambled up to follow him, hollering about fairness. 

Harry watched them go, still in shock. About a million questions ran through his head. Did Dean and Seamus snog on a regular basis? Were they dating? Had they been dating while they’d been in school the first time around, or was this a recent development? Did other people know? Was it very taboo in the wizarding world? Harry frowned. While he knew very thoroughly Vernon Dursley’s views on the matter, he supposed he had no idea how Muggles at large felt. 

The sound of a door slamming shut from the direction of the girls’ dormitories brought him out of his reverie. Right. Someone was coming, every mark on his body burned, Malfoy was waiting, and Harry still had a chair to steal. Quickly, he drew his wand, shrunk the chair, and stuffed it in his pocket. Mission complete, though now it felt rather anti-climatic. 

Harry wanted to roll his eyes at himself—had he really gotten so used to struggle and frustration that he didn’t feel satisfied when a plan went right? He slipped out of the common room through the tapestry, hurrying towards the dungeons. 

He slowed as he approached the door to the piano room, acting like he’d walked leisurely the whole way down. Turning the handle, he took in the now-familiar sight of Malfoy sitting at the piano bench, posture as perfect as ever. He was running his fingers over the keys, not playing but looking like he was working out part of a song in his mind. Harry pulled off the Cloak and shut the door behind him. 

Malfoy turned at the sound, catching sight of him. “Potter,” he nodded, stiff as his posture. 

Harry couldn’t help but smile a bit. “Malfoy.” Instead of dropping into the chair next to the piano as he usually did, he stopped just short of it, considering. This might be a bad idea, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he just did it.

He took out his wand and vanished the chair before he could think much about it. Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together as Harry dug out the miniature chair from his pocket, setting it on the ground and enlarging it until it was its original size. Then he flopped into it, looking at Malfoy with a grin, waiting. 

Malfoy looked like he knew he should be offended but wasn’t. “Potter. Are you, by chance, implying that that chair wasn’t good enough for you?” Those were  _ words _ that were coming out of Malfoy’s mouth, arranged into a full-on  _ question _ that could be the start of their first full-on conversation since the end of the war. Harry’s plan was working. 

Harry tried to shrug nonchalantly. “It was a bit lumpy, honestly.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “ _ Oh _ , right, I’m sorry, I forgot I was dealing with the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the same one that lived in the woods for  _ months _ while working to defeat the Dark Lord, but can’t handle sitting in a slightly, mildly lumpy chair.”

Malfoy’s smile matched his own, at this point. Harry brought his hands up indignantly. “That’s not all, one of the legs was shorter than the rest. It kept tilting.” Harry moved his head back and forth to mime the tilting. 

Malfoy scoffed—Harry supposed that it was supposed to be an offended scoff, but it turned out to be more of an amused one—and said, “ _ Really _ , Potter, I’m so sorry for my absolutely  _ atrocious _ conjuring skills that were evidently fine for the last few weeks but are suddenly the greatest of inconveniences to you. My deepest apologies.”

And then Harry’s brain derailed, thinking about Dean and Seamus and how they apparently apologized to one another, imagining, in abrupt and unexpected clarity, him and Malfoy apologizing like that. Huh. That was far less horrifying in his mind’s eye than he would have thought it would be. Quite the opposite, actually. 

Malfoy was looking at him and Harry remembered it was his turn to respond. “Apology accepted,” he croaked out, face heating as he cursed himself. What was he thinking? The whole point of the chair was to finally get Malfoy  _ talking _ to him and it had been working rather well.  _ Apologizing _ like that was many, many steps beyond where they were now, and thinking about it had left him at a complete loss for words. He floundered in the silence. 

“Is that a chair from the common room?” Malfoy came to the rescue.

“Er… yes?” Harry asked. It was the wrong answer, based on Malfoy's disappointed look. 

“And how, pray tell, do you expect to bring it back to the common room?”

“I wasn’t?” Wrong answer again. 

“That would be called stealing, Potter. Doesn’t that go against whatever Gryffindor mumbo-jumbo you have?”

“Lumpy chairs go against my Gryffindor mumbo-jumbo.” Harry folded his arms. “If I bring it back, I’ll have to steal it all over again tomorrow night.”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up. “And wouldn’t that just be a pain, Potter? Not to worry, I’ll bring it with us after you inevitably fall asleep to my music.” He cracked a couple knuckles, then seemed to register how Harry had taken his words. 

Really, Harry’s  _ marks _ were a pain, far more than stealing a chair every night would be, and he hated how he felt like he was using Malfoy to fix them. And then, for good measure, Malfoy had to bring him all the way back up to the Eighth Year common room because he couldn’t stay awake when Malfoy played the piano for him, which he didn’t even have to do in the first place. There he was, trying to keep Ron and Hermione from the burden of his constant problems by dumping them on Malfoy instead. His marks stung as his magic responded to his agitation. He stood, feeling like it was his turn to apologize. 

“Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “Sit down. I was kidding, it’s fine.” Harry hesitated, and Malfoy softened. “ _ Really, _ I don’t mind. Sit.”

Harry sat. Malfoy eyed him, as if checking to see that he was going to stay in place. 

“Okay,” Malfoy said, as if that was that. He turned to the piano and placed his hands on the keys. Harry watched as his eyes sank closed and he began to play. 

Everything—the fear, the guilt, the self-doubt—drained out of Harry as he listened, leaving him floating in a pool of peace. The burning in Harry’s marks disappeared as his magic calmed, and Harry thought that someday he’d apologize to Malfoy for using him like this, for his music. 

As he started to drift, he thought that Malfoy was a better drug than Dreamless Sleep, and that he didn’t mind if he got addicted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went and decided to plan things out a bit, and I'm guessing that this will have maybe 15-ish chapters? That's either ambitious (because this is sorta my first fic that I'm actually writing, and that's looking like being 20k-30k words at the current rate?) or conservative (because things keep happening in the story that I didn't plan, like Dean and Seamus in this chapter! who knew they'd barge on in!)... so we'll see. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and kudos-ing, you guys are the best!!


	6. Together

“Dear Merlin, Potter, is there no chair worthy of your arse?”

True to his word, Malfoy had returned that comfy purple chair to the Eighth Year common room. Harry viewed it as a challenge, and every night since, he had brought down a slightly more extravagant, more popular chair from the common room. There had been a couple of close calls and more than a couple rumours going around the Eighth Years about why the common room furniture kept getting rearranged. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Malfoy didn’t know where the chairs went, was it?

His most recent loot was a step above. The leather sofa was large enough to fit four people comfortably, and five if they squeezed. It was the kind of sofa that practically swallowed its occupants, much too easy to sink into and fall asleep on. If there were Eighth Years in the common room, it was practically guaranteed to be in use. Harry  _ would _ feel bad about the well-aimed stinging hexes that had convinced Justin Finch-Fletchley to vacate the couch, but the look on Malfoy’s face convinced him otherwise. 

“The last one was squishy, but in a weird way,” Harry answered. He stretched out on the sofa, folding his hands behind his head. “This one might be the one.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You say that every time.”

To be fair, Harry did say that every time, but this sofa  _ had _ to be “the one” because the common room had run out of new furniture to steal. Each night, he’d bickered with Malfoy over this, that, or the other reason why the previous night’s chair was insufficient for music-listening. It was nice, though-- their insults had lost any real fire behind them, now meant to amuse, not upset. The banter was fun, an easy routine to fall back into. 

Harry knew that if he went back to one of the other chairs that he’d so adamantly insisted against ever using again, he’d never hear the end of it from Malfoy. So this sofa was it: the end of the line. 

“Afraid you won’t be able to shrink this one enough to bring it back to the common room?” Harry goaded. In all honesty, he had barely been able to do so himself. His magic had been getting increasingly unreliable. One moment, a simple  _ Aguamenti _ to fill his cup at dinner was flooding the entire table, and the next, he could barely cast an  _ Accio _ to summon his quill. 

“I’m not sure how  _ you _ were able to shrink it, Potter, what with your accidental magic acting up so much,” Malfoy shot back, then pulled his head back as he saw Harry’s dumbfounded stare. “What?”

“I-- you-- you know about my magic?”

Malfoy was confused. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No one knows about it. Well-- Ron and Hermione did, but I’ve even managed to convince them that it’s under control now.”

Malfoy snorted. “I’m not sure how. Did Granger really not notice when you turned her hair pink during Potions yesterday?”

“You  _ saw _ that? I fixed it right away!”

“Yes, and even if I hadn’t, you walk in here every night with it swirling around wildly as if it couldn’t give a single fuck about what you want it to do!”

Harry stopped, caught off guard. “You can feel it?”

“You can’t?” When Harry shook his head, Malfoy frowned a bit. “I suppose that makes sense. I would have expected someone else to say something if we could all feel it.” He paused, looking like he was searching for the right words to explain it. “It’s… very alive. Like a storm, almost. It fills the room and has this  _ presence _ to it--it’s hard to describe. It mirrors your emotions, I think, because sometimes it feels almost happy, or angry, or sad.” He abruptly remembered himself, leveling a smirk at Harry. “Or stupid.”

“Stupid isn’t an emotion,” Harry said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. 

“Yet you’ve somehow made it one.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling stupid. Then he was annoyed with himself for proving Malfoy’s point. He gave up, focusing on the ceiling.

“I thought you knew that I knew,” Malfoy said, voice softer. 

“I didn’t.” Harry paused. “So then… the whole time, you knew? About your music? And how it does the-- the thing to my magic?” Merlin, he wished he were better at articulating what he wanted to say, but Malfoy nodded, as if he understood perfectly. 

“Yes.” 

Something in Harry relaxed. It was somehow better that Malfoy was at least aware Harry was using him to tame his magic.  _ That’s not the only reason you come down to listen, _ a very helpful voice piped up in the back of his head. 

_ You’re right, _ he told it.  _ It keeps the nightmares away, too. _

_ And?  _ It asked. He ignored it, just like how he’d been ignoring all the little voices that pointed out things like how long Malfoy’s eyelashes were or how sharp his jawline was. 

“Speaking of,” Malfoy said, and Harry jolted back to the conversation, “Your magic is nearly going crazy, so I’m going to start playing, because I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll do something idiotic like vanish the piano before I can.”

There was more to say, Harry was sure, but if Malfoy was willing to leave it unsaid, so was he. So Harry nodded, and Malfoy turned to the piano to play.

\--

The next night, Draco sat on the piano bench, waiting for Potter. Very patiently, he might add. Potter was as unpredictable as his magic, and that unpredictability extended to what time he showed up each night. Draco wasn’t usually bothered much, but another  _ Tempus _ charm told him Potter was much later than usual. 

He stood-- whether to go find Potter or just go to bed, he didn’t know. He stalked towards the door, pulling it open only to reveal Potter. An out-of-breath, flushed Potter that wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’d run all the way down there. His magic pulsed around him like a racing heartbeat. He looked as surprised as Draco was, taking a step back. 

“Malfoy,” he panted. “Sorry, it took forever to get down here. Justin fell asleep on the sofa again and I had to--” Potter cut himself off, looking guilty. “Well. Anyways.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “The sofa, again?”

“I told you it was the one.”

“I had exactly zero reasons to believe you. You had chair commitment issues. Severe ones.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Anyways, yeah. Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s not a date, Potter,” Draco said, turning and walking back towards the piano bench. “Don’t get your robes in a twist.”

Potter let that hang there for a second, then followed him into the room, magic churning. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he started. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Draco said. 

“ _ I’ve been thinking _ ,” Potter repeated, ignoring him, “Why do you come all the way down here to play?”

Draco felt like it was a trick question. “Because it’s where the piano is?”

Potter snorted. “No, it’s not.” 

Was he missing something? Draco glanced at the piano, making sure it was still there. “Yes, it is.”

“Oh,” Potter said, eyes widening. “I mean, yes, there’s obviously a piano down here. But what I meant was-- it’s not the  _ only _ piano. Why don’t you play at one of the pianos closer to the Eighth Year dorms? Why come all the way to the dungeons?”

The look on Draco’s face must have conveyed that he had absolutely no idea that there were other pianos in Hogwarts, because Potter laughed. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Calling me oblivious all the time when you think there’s only one piano in this entire castle, and that they decided to put it in the dungeons?” 

It was hard to not smile when Potter had that crooked grin on his face. “Why would you not bring up these hypothetical pianos before now? We’ve been coming down here for  _ weeks _ !”

“They’re not hypothetical! Just because  _ you _ haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And, well-- what if you had a reason for coming all the way down here? I didn’t want to put you out even more than I already was…” Potter trailed off, and Draco hated how unsure he looked. 

“Potter, I actually enjoy playing the piano, despite whatever nonsense you’re telling yourself up there,” he waved in the general direction of Potter’s forehead. “However, that doesn’t necessarily mean that climbing dozens of flights of stairs every night is my favorite activity.”

“It’s maybe five flights of stairs, you dramatic prat.”

“And you’re the one that started this whole conversation by complaining about how far away this room is from the common room.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. “Point.”

“If you’re so knowledgeable about the locations of all these other pianos, why don’t you show me them?”

“I will. All you had to do was ask,” Potter said, then hesitated. “But maybe not tonight?”

Draco nearly asked why, but then another wave of Potter’s magic swept over him. “Not tonight,” he agreed, sitting at the piano bench. 

“Tomorrow?” Potter asked. “We could walk down together.” He was digging the shrunken sofa out of his pocket. He set it on the ground and enlarged it, his magic cooperating for once. After collapsing onto it, he looked over at Draco. 

_ Together, together, together _ bounced around in Draco’s mind. Yes, he supposed he was amenable to that. If Potter was insisting. 

“Where should we meet? I don’t usually go to my room before coming down to play,” Draco said. 

“I’ll find you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what's way more fun than studying for online classes?
> 
> ... you guessed it, writing another chapter!


	7. Adventure

Draco pulled his door open after the first knock. An empty hallway greeted him, but Potter’s magic gave him away. Draco stepped back to let him in, closing the door behind him. 

Potter pulled off the Cloak. “You said you probably wouldn’t be in your room.”

“I changed my mind,” Draco shrugged. He’d been too wound up to go down to the library to study, too wrapped up in his thoughts to even convince himself to go for a walk. Instead, he’d paced his room, waiting for Potter to arrive. “You still found me.”

“I said I would,” Potter said easily. “Are you ready?” 

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” Potter’s eyes played at mischievousness on the surface, but Draco could see the question underneath:  _ Do you trust me? _

Draco’s answer surprised himself: he did. Easily. There was a push and pull between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, and Draco suspected it would always be that way. These days, though, the interaction was playful—friendly, even. The war had turned the entire nature of their relationship on its head, trading hate for— not just peace, exactly. Something more. Something better. Draco tried not to think about how scared he was of losing it, so instead, he put his hand on the door knob. “Lead the way, then,” he said, turning it. 

“Wait!” Potter said quickly. Draco turned to look at him. “We need to go under the Cloak.”

_ Need to? _ Draco narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Why?”

Potter scratched the back of his neck. “Er-- I may or may not have taken that sofa again? And Justin may or may not have been sleeping on it before that. And he may or may not be a little bit upset about how I woke him up. I was under the Cloak, so he doesn’t know it was me, but he’s trying to figure out who did it.”

Draco stared at him, bewildered. “Who are you and what have you done with the Potter I know and hate?” He moved his head around, squinting at Potter from a couple different angles as if trying to figure it out. “Gryffindor mumbo-jumbo, Potter. Gryffindor mumbo-jumbo. It would do you well to remember it.” Shaking his head, he opened his door and walked through. 

He heard Potter squawk behind him and scramble to put the Cloak on again. Avoiding a muttering Finch-Fletchley masterfully, Draco slipped through and out of the common room without being noticed at all. Once in the corridor, he leaned against the nearest wall, inspecting his nails as he waited. He counted down in his head:  _ three, two, one... _

“How did you do that?” Potter’s disembodied voice demanded.  _ Right on time. _

“Cloak, Potter,” Draco reminded him. Potter appeared again a beat later. “Coincidentally, it’s done me well to be able to sneak through public places unseen in recent months. Not all of us have Invisibility Cloaks, and not all of us get the type of attention you get from all your adoring fans.”

“It’s not like I enjoy it.” Potter’s response was automatic, defensive, but rather than matching his tone, his magic swirled with a righteous anger. 

“I never said you did.” Draco shifted, uncomfortable with how Potter’s magic was reacting. He’d meant to poke fun at Potter, but now the conversation was pushing up dangerously close to the topic of the war. Draco had made his choices, and now he was facing the consequences. He didn’t need Potter doing something stupid like fighting his battles for him. 

_ Best to move on,  _ Draco thought, remembering how an upset Potter tended to result in things being broken by his out-of-control magic. “You did say, however, that there were more pianos somewhere in this castle, and currently, I remain thoroughly unconvinced.”

If Potter had whiplash from the abrupt redirection, he didn’t show it. Instead, he let that crooked grin take over his face. Draco hated that grin. It made him practically melt every time he saw it, and thought that he’d do anything it took to make it appear. “Follow me.” Helplessly, Draco did. 

Ten minutes later, feeling like he was being led on a wild goose chase, Draco stopped walking. “Potter.”

“Yes?” The innocent look on Potter’s face didn’t fool Draco. 

“This is at least three times as far from the common room than the piano in the dungeons.”

“Oh, definitely. Maybe four times as far, even.” Draco leveled a glare. This was the sixth time he’d voiced a complaint, and the sixth time that Potter had responded cheerily. At this point, Draco was only needling him so that he could see the amusement that danced through Potter’s eyes when he did. 

“You said that there were pianos that were closer to the common room.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy, we’re almost there. Are you going to be alright?” Potter made a terrible attempt at acting concerned, clearly trying to hold back a laugh as he laid a hand on Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco swallowed, trying to ignore the warm weight of Potter’s palm. His gaze flit around, trying to find something to hate— Potter’s stupid glasses, the rat’s nest bundle of hair on his head, and the god-awful scar that just barely stopped above his eyebrow. Bugger. He really didn’t hate any of it. At all.  _ Fuck, _ he was so screwed. 

But then Draco remembered that he didn’t want Potter to know just how gone he was over him, so he pushed Potter’s hand off and sniffed. “I’ll be alright when you show me this stupid piano, already.”

Potter rolled his eyes and turned around, facing a suit of armour. “I wanted to show you this one first because—well, you’ll see why—but if I’d realized what a dramatic git you’d be about it…” He pulled out his wand and tapped it on the helmet of the armour, whispering something Draco couldn’t hear. 

The suit of armour creaked to life, stepping forward before turning its back towards them. It reached up to the red curtain that hung behind it, pulling it to the side to reveal a wooden door. It stood to the side, holding out an arm as if to say,  _ Come on in.  _

Potter nudged him with a shoulder, so Draco walked up to the door, pushing it open. 

A dark entryway gave way to more darkness until Draco heard Potter whisper, “ _ Lumos, _ ” and a dozen floating lanterns came to life. In the center of the room sat the grand piano. Nothing about it suggested outwardly that it was any different or better than the one in the dungeons. In fact, it looked dusty in the shadows, everything about it suggesting years of disuse. But something about it called to Draco, and he felt his feet moving forward of their own accord. 

He sat carefully on the bench, sliding his fingers across the keys. He paused for a moment, resisting, drinking in the quiet and feeling Potter’s magic pressing in from all sides, then began to play, giving in to the urge. 

The song was an old one from his childhood, carefree and adventurous, and its notes rang clearly through the chamber. Draco didn’t remember picking it consciously, but everything about it seemed  _ right _ as he played. He wasn’t sure if it was the song, or the piano, or both, but the music seemed more powerful than ever before, intermingling with Potter’s magic easily. 

Draco knew it wasn’t a long song, but it felt like days had passed by the time he finished it. As the last notes hung in the air, he withdrew his hands from the keys, knowing that if he left them there, he’d launch into the next song without a thought. But there were thoughts that he wanted to have first, and turned to Potter, ready to express them. 

Potter wasn’t on his couch next to the piano, so Draco turned further to find him, discovering that Potter still stood near the entrance, where Draco had left him when he’d been drawn in to play. A deep blush covered his cheeks and his lips were slightly parted. He looked like he was frozen, watching Draco as if in a trance. 

Draco cleared his throat. “Well?” His voice was almost hoarse, and  _ damn him, _ Potter’s blush seemed to be infectious because it was spreading across Draco’s face as well. 

Potter shook himself out of it. “Well.” He seemed to force himself forward, stopping next to the piano. He looked at Draco again, then appeared to be at a complete loss for what to do, patting his pockets and fumbling with the miniaturized sofa that emerged from them. He set it down and squinted at it for a second, then looked back at Draco. “The acoustics are good, aren’t they?”

At this, Draco barked out a laugh. “Yes, Potter, the acoustics are good.” He drew his wand and enlarged the sofa before Potter could even consider it because Potter’s magic was revealing a confusing swirl of emotions that didn’t inspire much of Draco’s trust in Potter’s current magical stability. He frowned back at the piano. “That’s not all though, and you know it— otherwise, you wouldn’t have made me trek this absolutely  _ obscene _ distance to play on it.”

Draco said something about old magic, thinking about how wholly the music had overtaken him as he’d played. He tapped his finger on the wooden frame thoughtfully, then turned to Potter. “Why’d you bring me to this piano first?”

Potter was staring again, and started when he realized he was being addressed, despite being the only other person in the room. “It—I dunno. I think my magic led me here? It just seemed right. And it was, I mean, you were—I mean, it was—beautiful.” Now Potter looked thoroughly embarrassed, and gave off the impression of someone that was casting about desperately for a lifeline. ”I mean, the  _ acoustics _ , Malfoy.”

Draco, amused by his struggle, held back a grin. The blush from earlier still stained Potter’s cheeks, so Draco took pity. “Yes, yes, Potter, the  _ acoustics _ . Ten points to Gryffindor for the big word. Now sit down, already, shut up, and let me play.”

\--

Over the next couple of weeks, Harry showed Malfoy every piano he could think of in the castle. There were more than Harry originally realized, though he supposed he had never really kept count. Some were pure magic, making the lights dance or the wind blow as Malfoy played. Some were so old and decrepit that Malfoy had barely laid a finger on before demanding to be taken to a different one, refusing to waste his talent on so poor an instrument. 

In the end, though, they kept returning to that first piano—the one that was at least four times farther from the common room than the one in the dungeons, the one that transformed Malfoy’s music into something that never failed to catch Harry off guard. 

It was a position that pre-war Harry would have loathed to be in, but one that post-war Harry knew almost instinctively that he needed. He’d follow Malfoy anywhere to listen to him play, he thought, and not just to feel the marks on his skin soothe as his magic calmed. He was bare and vulnerable there, yet protected and cared for by the music—by Malfoy. 

And so he led Malfoy back to that piano time and time again, countering his complaints with reminders that  _ Malfoy _ was the one that requested to go to that piano, which Malfoy responded to with outrage because which other piano was he supposed to choose, when none of the others worked as well on Harry’s magic as this one? 

The walks together were long and numerous, and when the taunts wore into gentle teasing, Harry wondered if they weren’t flirting, and what that might mean because  _ Merlin,  _ he wanted it to mean something. But before he could wonder too much, they would reach their destination and Harry would light the floating lanterns and Malfoy would start playing. 

Harry would inevitably wake up in his room the next morning, feeling like he and Malfoy were standing right on the edge of a cliff, practically goading one another to take the leap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, I know it’s been a while! Real life hit hard the last couple weeks but now I’m going to have a lot more time to sit down and write. Here’s a slightly longer chapter to make up for the wait!
> 
> Thanks for reading and being awesome!!


	8. Falling

Perhaps, Harry would reflect later, it had been too good. 

That was the way his life seemed to work: every time that things became simple, or—Merlin forbid,  _ easy _ —the fates would swoop in to turn it all upside down, destroying whatever chances he had at being happy. 

Of course, things weren’t perfect. He knew that. His accidental magic appeared to be acting up more, not less, and Harry continued to quietly fear his own power, desperately trying to reign it in. When he failed, the fiery, glowing marks appeared across his skin, searing and painful. He was only getting a few hours of rest each night, only trusting the sleep he got after listening to Malfoy play to be nightmare-free.

On the other hand, so many things were going right for once. There were no dark wizards to chase after, and none that were chasing after him. Hermione and Ron weren’t worried about him, for perhaps the first time since they’d met. His fan club began forgetting about stalking him for hours at a time, leaving him some peace and quiet. He found out he was actually quite good at healing magic—a side product of his quest for trying to make his marks go away—and was considering becoming a Healer. 

And, well, Malfoy was a category of his own. Their old rivalry gone, Harry revelled in every smile that filled the space where a hex used to be. In all of the ways that Malfoy’s mere existence had ground upon him before the war, the two of them seemed to fit together now. Harry felt like he’d been let in on an inside joke, seeing Malfoy’s haughtiness in the sarcastic light he meant it to be seen in, his poshness as a funny part of his unique personality. 

Harry didn’t suppose he could ever feel an emotion about Malfoy lightly, and that was why the passionate hate from before had transformed into something just as all-consuming that he wasn’t sure that he was ready to name. All he knew was that it had him feeling light inside, making the pain of his glowing marks that much easier to ignore. 

He eagerly awaited their nighttime treks through Hogwarts’s dark corridors and imagined he could smell Malfoy’s expensive cologne on him in the mornings, when he woke up back in his bed. He stole the leather sofa each night just to see how Malfoy’s eyes lit up each time, refusing to answer any questions about how he’d managed to evade Justin Finch-Fletchley again, who had started up a stake-out each night to discover who had been stealing the sofa from the common room. Harry found himself watching the line of Malfoy’s throat as he swallowed, and thought privately that Malfoy’s new hairstyle looked quite good, mussed up instead of slicked back. 

All in all, Harry was falling for Malfoy faster than he’d thought possible. He wasn’t sure what he’d do about it, but supposed that he wouldn’t know until it was already half-done, what with how he usually rushed into things head-first.  _ Gryffindor mumbo-jumbo _ , he could practically hear Malfoy tutting at him, and he’d grin at the thought. 

And so Harry was approaching being something like  _ happy  _ or  _ content _ , which Merlin knew couldn’t be allowed for long. 

\--

“I have to get back,” Draco said, glancing at the clock. His mother set her cup down, frowning at him. 

“It’s late, Dragon, why not stay the night here? It’s Saturday, I’m sure the Headmistress wouldn’t mind. I’ve redone your old room,” Narcissa offered. 

Draco hated the hopeful look on her face, if only because he inevitably crushed it every time it appeared. Even if he could bear the thought of sleeping at Malfoy Manor for a night, even if he could forget the screams and blood and suffering endured in its halls, Potter was waiting for him. He couldn’t exactly tell his mother that, but he knew that his other reasons for not wanting to stay were enough for her to not ask him any questions. 

He stood, pulling her into a careful embrace. She let him, clutching to him in the way she had since the war ended, like she was afraid it was the last time, yet grateful for the chance. “Maybe another time,” he murmured. He felt her nod once against his shoulder, then pull back to kiss him lightly on the cheek. 

When she stepped away, she looked as composed as always. It would take another Malfoy to recognize the sadness in her eyes, to spot the slight tremor in her left hand. She looked him up and down a moment as if reassuring herself that he was all in one piece. 

“Misty,” she finally called, and a house elf popped into the room. Misty walked over to the pair, carrying his cloak and a small package wrapped in green and gold paper. 

Narcissa took the cloak and draped it over his shoulders, then handed over the box with a small smile. “Some fuel for studying.”

Draco bowed exaggeratedly as he accepted it, drawing a small chuckle from her. “Thank you, Mother.”

“Visit again soon,” she said, though it sounded more like a question than anything. 

“Of course,” he replied, stopping near the door. “Goodnight, Mother.”

“Goodnight, Draco.” With that, he was outside, waiting until he was outside of the Manor’s wards to Apparate to the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. 

As he walked up the beaten path towards the castle, he felt at once guilty and relieved to be leaving the Manor. Truthfully, he never wanted to return, but his mother insisted on staying there.

She wanted to repair their family home, cleansing it of the dark magic that it was tainted with and scrubbing every memory of the Dark Lord’s presence away. It was her first step towards rebuilding the Malfoy name, and he was proud of her. She still stood tall, not because she was proud of what they had done during the war, but because she knew what they had done wrong and was ready to work to fix it for the rest of her life. 

She was starting from the inside out, rebuilding the Manor while she waited for the Wizarding world to be ready to accept her efforts, working towards acceptance and peace. To hell with what Lucius thought about all of it—he was locked up in Azkaban for life— and Draco could only support her.

After all, wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to do as well? He was keeping his head down, working quietly away at his NEWTS and avoiding antagonizing himself any further. He hoped to get his Potions mastery and someday open his own research lab. 

He knew that even if he discovered the cure to lycanthropy, the prejudices from the war would never propel him towards any true high standing in the Wizarding world, but he didn’t need that. Acceptance and peace would be enough. More than enough, really, if it meant he could someday walk down Diagon Alley without constantly checking over his shoulder. If it meant he could help others with potions without them hating him for it. 

As he approached the castle, he wondered where he should go. A  _ Tempus _ told him that it was late— far later than he and Potter usually met to walk to the piano room together. He considered heading up to the common room. He could set his things down in his room, check to see if the leather sofa had yet been stolen from the common room, see if Potter was waiting there. Then again, the side entrance he was nearing was on the side of the castle nearest their piano room, and something about going there felt right, so Draco decided to check there first.

He pulled over a heavy wooden door, then began the winding journey. As much as he complained about it to Potter, he’d grown to love the path to their piano room. It was a quieter part of the castle, largely unused. The portraits knew him on sight by now, many of the occupants waving merrily at him as he passed. 

He grew impatient as he went, rapidly revising his feelings about the long journey. It was much more enjoyable when Potter was grinning beside him, their shoulders bumping and knuckles brushing. He almost wished the walk was  _ longer _ whenever Potter clung to him in his sleep as Draco carried him back to his room. Now, though, Draco just wanted to see Potter sooner, and he begrudged the distance. 

Finally, he reached the suit of armour. It stepped to the side with the whispered spell and he reached for the door handle, an apology for his lateness ready on the tip of his tongue. Draco pulled the door open and froze. A tidal wave of Potter’s magic knocked the breath out of him and he struggled to take in the scene before him, the package from his mother slipping from his fingers, forgotten. 

The floating lanterns were lit, casting soft light on the room. It wasn’t just the lanterns that were floating; so was  _ everything else  _ in the room. Potter—asleep, suspended mid-air, glowing marks shining on his skin— was at the center of it all, and every object seemed to orbit him slowly. There were Potter’s glasses, and Draco thought that he saw the strange glimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. The leather sofa bobbed along heavily near the ground, the piano bench a bit higher up. 

Draco looked around for the piano itself, his heart sinking when he caught sight of a singular white key flying past. Then another, and another, and a couple strings swam past. The entire piano had been disassembled, Draco realized, sadness pooling in his chest. He ducked as one of the piano legs came for his head, then refocused on Potter as he straightened. 

Through and through, Draco was a planner. It was how he operated, moving through life like it was a chess game, ready with his second, third, and fourth move planned out, and back-up plans if something went awry. Harry Potter was his exception. Always had been, and Draco had made him the target of impulsive hexes and spur-of-the-moment crude drawings in their younger years. Harry Potter was unpredictable, and Draco couldn’t help but react to him. 

Looking at Potter floating among piano debris and lanterns, Draco’s mind went blank. He had no plan, no thought in his head except that  _ Potter would hurt himself if he fell from that height _ , and his feet moved forward on their own accord. 

Perhaps it was the sound of his footsteps, or him calling, “Potter?” cautiously, or whatever was happening in Potter’s dreamworld, but as he approached the center of the room, everything abruptly intensified. Potter’s magic felt angry and scared, bursting and racing around him, distracting him so much that he nearly didn’t duck in time to avoid getting knocked out by the piano bench. Potter cried out. The calm revolution of the objects in the room had changed pace, speeding up and losing stability. 

“Potter,” Draco said, louder this time. He stepped backwards to avoid the couch, then looked up in horror as he heard the sound of something shattering. Two lanterns had collided in a shower of glass and fire. Magical as it was, the fire refused to die out, instead joining the other objects floating in the air, catching on tapestries and spreading. Draco swallowed. “Potter!” 

The only response was an escalation of the problem. The room now resembled a fiery tornado, piano parts and lanterns hurtling around the room, crashing and breaking as they went. Draco got his wand out and tried to maintain a shield charm against the onslaught, but it became increasingly difficult as he was attacked from all sides. 

Dread filled him as he heard Potter screaming against the unseen forces in his nightmare and he pushed forwards, fighting to get closer to him. He was totally unprepared when a piano leg whacked into his wand arm from behind, sending his wand flying into the mess. 

A tapestry wrapped around him a second later and before he could react, he was swept off the ground, joining the tornado with a yelp. A lantern flew straight at his face, and Draco closed his eyes and brought up his hands without thinking, pain shooting up his arms as the lantern exploded in a mix of flames and glass. Eyes still closed, he didn’t know to brace for the pain of piano strings snapping across his skin as he crossed their path, or the blunt blow to his stomach from what he suspected was the piano bench. 

“HARRY!” 

For a single, blessed moment, everything stopped. Though he still had his eyes squeezed tightly shut, Draco felt the way that Potter’s magic froze over, halting the motion of everything in the room. He heard Potter gasp awake and could have sworn that he heard him whisper, “Draco?” 

Draco didn’t have time to reply because a second later, everything was crashing to the ground and that included Draco and he must have been higher up than he realized because his world went black when he hit the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears, let me know what you think! Your comments literally always leave me with a stupid grin on my face :)


	9. Broken

The first thing that Draco noticed when he woke up was the anxious, writhing mess that was Potter’s magic. It filled the room heavily, thick with worry. 

The second thing that Draco noticed was that he couldn’t feel anything else. It felt like every nerve ending in his body had disappeared. There was no pain, but there was also nothing else— not the feeling of a bed beneath him, blankets covering him, or even clothes on him. For all he knew, he was floating in a vacuum, completely starkers. 

He pried his eyes open, suddenly afraid that was the case, and felt relieved when he saw he was in a bed in the infirmary, covered in white bedding. 

Right. One question answered, but many more were raised. Why was he in the infirmary in the first place? He thought back. He remembered falling, then darkness. Was he paralyzed? He focused on his left big toe, then tried to wriggle it. While he still couldn’t feel anything, he could see the bedsheet move near his feet. Slowly, he tried moving his head side to side, satisfied when his field of view moved with it. He considered trying to lift an arm—a task that seemed monumentally difficult for some reason—but disregarded the idea when he felt another heavy wave of Potter’s magic sweep over him. 

_ Potter. _ It all came rushing back—returning from a visit with his mother, finding Potter asleep and floating in their piano room, trying to reach him, being swept into the fiery tornado, Potter waking up, him falling. 

Was Potter alright? Draco could feel his magic, so he must be nearby, but was nowhere in sight. Draco wondered if he could speak and decided to try. 

“Cloak, Potter.” It was hoarse, but it worked. After a tense moment of silence, there was a rustling, and Potter appeared. They stared at each other a moment, and Draco searched for something to say, clearing his throat. “Are you alright?”

It was a stupid question— Potter looked terrible, if Draco was being honest. Rumpled clothes, baggy eyes, and bad posture (more so than usual) all suggested a sleepless night. His worry manifested in a hard set to his jaw, a furrow to his brow. 

But what concerned Draco more than anything was how uncharacteristically  _ still _ Potter was. None of his normal fidgeting or bouncing from foot to foot. He looked like he was holding himself carefully. Draco’s eyes caught on one of those glowing marks peeking out from under one of Potter’s sleeves and wondered, not for the first time, if they were painful. 

“I’m fine,” Potter said, shaking his head with a tortured expression. “You’re not.”

“Wouldn’t know. I can’t feel anything,” Draco said with a huff of a chuckle. Potter didn’t laugh, somehow looking even more concerned instead.

“You can’t—I mean, I think you fell pretty hard, but you can’t  _ feel anyth _ —” 

“Potter,” Draco interjected, “It’s from the potions that I’m sure Madame Pomfrey shoved down my throat while I was out. I can still taste them a bit.”

“Oh.” He didn’t look entirely convinced, but nodded slightly anyways. “I didn’t know. She kicked me out right after I brought you here.” 

“So naturally, you retrieved your Cloak and returned,” Draco said with a hesitant smirk. He wanted to see some sort of mischievous glint in Potter’s eyes, but all he got was another hollow look and another moment of charged silence. 

Finally, Potter ducked his head. “I should go, Pomfrey will be back any second.” Draco would have protested, had he made any effort to leave, but he stayed, fiddling with the Cloak. He looked towards the door, then turned back to Draco, taking a small step forwards. His hands formed fists in the Cloak as he dragged his eyes up to meet Draco’s. “Malfoy, I—”

Just then, the office door of the hospital wing banged open, startling them both. Draco looked over to see Madame Pomfrey appear, looking slightly frazzled. “My apologies, Mr. Malfoy,” she said as she bustled over. “I didn’t notice that my monitoring charm had detected that you were awake until now.” 

Draco’s eyes darted back to the spot Potter had been standing a second before, relieved to find it empty. “Quite alright,” he said. 

“Now, let’s take a look at you,” she said, arriving at his bedside. 

Straight to business as always, she flicked her wand to pull back the bedsheets, and Draco discovered he was dressed in only his boxers, much of the rest of his body covered in white bandages. Working from his feet upwards, she began to cast diagnostic spells, making notes as she went. He lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling and letting her work.

Despite the fact that his sense of touch was still gone, he could feel the tingle of her spellwork. Draco frowned. He had always been able to sense magic, he supposed, but had never thought it was something abnormal. In classes, they talked about how magic felt all the time, describing  _ Alohomora _ as ‘freeing’ or Stinging Hexes as ‘sharp’. But now that Draco thought about it, perhaps those descriptions were about how they were meant to feel to the caster, not necessarily observers or recipients. He made a mental note to research his newfound sixth sense later.

Draco decided to test it out a bit now, centering on the feeling of Potter’s magic. Merlin, now that he was focused on it, he realized the air was full of it, hanging around them like a thick fog of anxiety and fear. He could interact with it by playing the piano, he knew, but could he do so without playing? He prodded at it mentally, pleased to discover that it almost felt solid. 

He was distracted from his musings when Madame Pomfrey finished her diagnostic spells and began removing the bandages covering his arms. A spike of horror followed by waves of guilt in Potter’s magic made Draco look down. 

Oh. Oh, fuck. 

_ Stay calm, Potter, _ he pleaded mentally. 

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips and Summoned half a dozen jars of potions. “You can’t feel anything, correct?”

“No.” Draco drew a breath, held it, and let it out. “Madame,” he said, keeping his voice level with extreme effort, “Is it as bad as it looks?” 

“Worse, I’m afraid.” The brusque professionalism of her usual tone was marred by pity. 

Draco gave a pained laugh. “How much worse?”

“To start, the burns go more than skin-deep. They came from magical fire, I presume?” Draco nodded once in confirmation, remembering the floating lanterns exploding as they connected with his hands. “By the time you were brought to me, the fire had burnt through to the bone in some places, but especially your hands. Once it reaches bone, magical fire can travel along the bone, underneath your skin, to places where you did not come into contact with the fire. Along the way, it induced dozens of small heat fractures, which as an isolated issue, would be entirely treatable.”

“But it wasn’t isolated,” Draco said quietly.

“Indeed. To begin with, your arms were also riddled with deep puncture wounds from shattered glass. I have extracted all of the shards, I believe, but they interacted with the magical fire and caused quite a bit of muscular damage in your forearms. Furthermore, some reached bone, causing further problems.

“Lastly, Mr. Malfoy, you fell. It appears that you attempted to break your fall and protect your head with your arms—as you should have. However, in addition to a couple of clean breaks in your upper arms here, and here, you have completely shattered every bone from your elbow down.” Madame Pomfrey paused, once again looking distressed on his behalf. “And that is just the summary of the injuries sustained on your arms.”

“Ah,” Draco said, trying desperately to ignore the panic that was manifesting both in himself and in Potter’s magic. “And the healing process?”

“Fortunately, I expect everything to heal completely.” 

Relief flooded him.  _ Could have led with that, _ Draco thought. 

“Most of your injuries, with the exception of those on your arms, should be healed properly by the end of the day. They were fairly minor. You should expect your arms, however, to take significantly longer to heal. The skin, as you can see, was severely damaged, but it has begun its regrowth process nicely. Scarring, if any, will be faint. 

“However, your bones… the heat fractures and subsequent shattering complicated things greatly. It’s not so simple as mending a break, or even removing your bones and regrowing them. They must reform somewhat organically. We will use magic to speed along the process, of course, but it will be several days before you are able to hold your wand, and perhaps a few weeks before you can regain the fine motor skills required to use a quill again.”

_ Or play the piano _ , Draco thought with a pang. 

Draco closed his eyes and they lapsed into silence. Madame Pomfrey cleaned the wounds, rubbed a few potions into them, had him swallow a couple, then wrapped them in new bandages. Once finished, she sent her supplies flying back to the cupboards they came from.

She pulled up a chair and sat. Draco got the feeling that she was gearing up to say something important and waited patiently. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she began, peering at him over her spectacles, “I understand that you are in a difficult position here, and that not all students have taken kindly to your return to Hogwarts.”

“It’s been alright,” he said slowly, confused as to where she was going with this. “I’ve kept out of trouble.” She gave him a pointed look. “Until now, I suppose.”

“I would like to emphasize that unfair treatment towards  _ any _ student is never condoned, no matter  _ who _ is doling out that treatment. Say the word, Mr. Malfoy, and I will speak with the Headmistress. Celebrity status and past good deeds protect no one enough to commit crimes against—“

“You think  _ Potter _ attacked me?” Draco realized with a laugh. “Golden Boy, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Boy Who Lived? That Potter?”

She bristled. “Well, Mr. Potter was the one who brought you here, looking like this.”

“Oh,” Draco said sarcastically, ready to make a smart remark about how bringing him to the hospital wing proved very thoroughly that Potter wanted to hurt him. He stopped, reminding himself that Madame Pomfrey was only looking out for him. Draco reeled in his tone, speaking again only once he was sure he could be polite. “I appreciate your concern, Madame Pomfrey. Rest assured, Harry Potter would never try to hurt me like this.” 

His words were partly for Potter’s sake, said with the hope that Potter would understand that he meant it. Potter would never try to hurt him. Not anymore, anyways, and never to this extent. Judging from the way Potter’s magic continued to drip with guilt, Draco wasn’t sure that the message got through to him. 

“Very well. Mr. Malfoy, my point still stands: as a student here, you are entitled to the same protections as any other. I need names of the students that did this.”

“I would give them to you if there were any. As it was, I was really just being quite clumsy using one of those back staircases on my way back from visiting with my mother. I tripped and knocked into a couple of the lanterns that light the passage and must have fallen down several flights of stairs. I’m lucky— and grateful, I suppose— that Potter was able to find me and bring me here.”

For a moment, Madame Pomfrey looked like she would press him for more. It wasn’t a very good lie, and they both knew it. Fortune seemed to favor him in that moment, because her eyes drifted back to the bandages covering his arms and she just shook her head to herself.

“This is not the end of this discussion,” she said, standing. “The Headmistress wishes to speak with you, as well as Professor Slughorn. We are here to help, Mr. Malfoy, and you would do well to remember it. However, for now, it would be best for your healing if you slept.”

With a flick of her wand, the bedsheets covered him and the curtains around his station drew shut behind her. 

Draco let out a breath once she was gone. She was right, he was exhausted, but there was the slightly more pressing matter of a certain invisible Savior. 

“Cloak, Potter,” he whispered.

If Potter looked terrible before, he looked positively broken now. He hung back, as far from the bed as he could get without leaning into the curtains. 

“It’s not your fault,” Draco said quietly, trying to convey how true he believed it to be. 

Potter shook his head, looking horrified. “Yes, it is.” Potter abruptly took three long steps and was standing right in front of him, suddenly so close. Draco drank in his presence, taking momentary comfort in the protective expression on Potter’s face. A shaking hand reached towards Draco, as if to cup his cheek, then retreated quickly. 

Potter swung the Invisibility Cloak over himself in one quick, jerky motion. Draco felt Potter’s breath on his cheek and froze. “Draco,” Potter said, voice breaking, “I am so, so sorry.”

With that, Potter was gone, leaving the hospital wing and taking his agitated magic with him. Draco lay there in shock, wishing that he could get up and follow him, afraid of Potter getting hurt because of his accidental magic, angry that Potter left him there alone. 

It took Draco a long while to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! 
> 
> I updated the chapter count because I reevaluated and realized I’ve likely got more than six more chapters of material left, even though the chapters just keep getting longer. Sorry not sorry :)


	10. Walls

The four days since the accident with Potter had been brutal. As the only patient in the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey was able to focus all of her attention on him, constantly performing diagnostic spells, lecturing him about sleeping enough, and prying for information on the accident. Draco was about to go mad. 

Throughout the whole ordeal, Draco had stayed steadfast, refusing to tell her, Headmistress McGonagall, and Professor Slughorn any more details, despite their persistent attempts to convince him otherwise. He was now very thoroughly aware just how much they considered him “equal to every other student” at Hogwarts and how disappointed they were that another student had “played vigilante” after he had already been tried and sentenced by the Wizengamot. 

Draco was a Slytherin to his core, so he did nothing to persuade them that this  _ hadn’t _ been an unjustified attack on a poor, reformed Death Eater. He didn’t want their pity, but a little extra protection from the faculty could never hurt. 

That protection could come in handy soon, as there were  _ words _ Draco needed to have with one Harry Potter about the appropriate circumstances in which it was acceptable to avoid someone that cares about you. These were not appropriate circumstances.

The instant that Madame Pomfrey approved his release from the hospital wing, Draco had gathered his things and left, ready to be rid of the oppressive white walls and stale air. He nodded along dutifully as she demanded that he return once daily for checkups, accepting scrolls filled with physical therapy exercises.

Draco had barely made it to the end of the corridor of the hospital wing before he was nearly run over by a wild-haired, out-of-breath Hermione Granger. His eyes widened as he stumbled back, immediately a bit wary of the fierce look in her eyes. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, confirming that this was the end of her search for him, not a chance run-in that he could duck away from. 

“Draco,” she said, sounding relieved, reminding him exactly why he had avoided her as much as possible. After the lengthy apology he’d given her for all his past mistreatment on the first day of the term, she had forgiven him graciously, going so far as to metaphorically wipe the slate clean between them, calling him by his first name and nodding hello whenever she saw him. 

Draco hated it. He knew that he didn’t deserve any of it. If anything, even the cautious acceptance of his apology from Potter a day later was too much. Weasley, when Draco had apologized to him, had given him a hard stare before turning on his heel and walking away.  _ That’s more like it, _ Draco remembered thinking. 

Granger’s kindness was off-putting, if he was being honest. He didn’t know what to do but tirelessly work to avoid it, especially when he caught her looking at him as if he were one of her difficult Arithmancy problems to solve. Everything in his life may have gone to shit, but he didn’t need Hermione Granger to fix it for him. 

“Hello, Granger,” he said, trying to straighten his posture. He pretended like it wasn’t obvious that she had been looking for him and tried to step around her, wanting to escape. She blocked his path. 

“It’s Hermione.” 

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. “Hello, Hermione.” He tried to step around her again, but was blocked once more. He looked at her. She looked back. “Look, it’s been a hellish couple of days for me and I’ve got an appointment with a soft bed in my dorm room for the next twelve hours, so whatever you have to say, please just say it.” 

Granger looked at him with that puzzle-solving look. “Harry won’t talk to me.” 

Draco tried not to roll his eyes. “I’m not one of those Muggle relationship counselors, Gra-Hermione. You and the Chosen One will have to work that out on your own.”

“I mean,” she continued as if he hadn’t said something remarkably clever and scathing with a bit of Muggle knowledge thrown in, “He’s talking to me, but he’s not  _ talking  _ to me. He had been a bit distant from me and Ron, sure, but he had been getting better. Moving on, and happier than I’d seen him in months.”

“I still don’t see why  _ I  _ am involved—”

“He had been getting better until four days ago,” Hermione cut him off. Draco closed his mouth. “That’s what I thought. Since then, I don’t think he’s gotten a wink of sleep. No classes, no meals, no quidditch. He’s been disappearing at weird times.” 

Draco thought about the few times that he’d felt Potter’s magic prickling at the edge of his senses, as if Potter were hovering outside the door to the hospital wing, unwilling to come in, but also unwilling to leave. “And you were gone. You were already hard to find, but you didn’t even show up to classes and the teachers weren’t questioning it. But I didn’t put two and two together at first, even when I kept catching him staring at that goddamn map all day like it was his only saving grace. And then— _ and then _ — out of nowhere, five minutes ago, he’s the most alive I’ve seen him in days, begging me to rush down to the hospital wing and make sure that  _ Draco Malfoy,  _ of all people, is alright.” She folded her arms, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Draco looked at her helplessly. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to explain Potter’s behavior to himself, much less explain it to her. He shrugged. 

“Well, are you?” She asked. 

“Am I what?”

“Harry wanted me to see if you were alright,” she said again. “Are you?”

“Oh,” he said, and was going to reply that he was just fine, thank you, when his arms gave out and dropped everything he’d been carrying.  _ Great timing, _ he thought as he stooped to try to pick it all up. There wasn’t much—the scrolls from Pomfrey with exercises, his wand, an indestructible vial with a potion he had to take every few hours—but his fingers refused to cooperate, unable to close around any of the items.

Granger was suddenly crouching beside him, gathering his things easily. She stood, then offered a hand to him. He stared at it a moment then tried to accept it, cursing himself when his arm froze halfway up. It just started shaking when he tried to force it the rest of the way. He gave up, letting it fall limply to his side. 

His arms may not work, but his legs still did, so he pushed himself back up to stand, avoiding eye contact with Granger. 

“So that’s a no, then.” Her voice was gentle. He let his silence answer for him. 

No, he wasn’t alright. At first glance, he looked fine. Skin unmarred, all limbs and digits intact, and no limp in his gait. Upon closer inspection, though, it would be obvious that something was wrong. Madame Pomfrey’s initial assessment and prediction was correct: his arms were far from fully healed. 

The “squishy stuff,” as Pomfrey called it, was easy to repair; the muscles, nerves, skin, and blood vessels were easily replaced or mended with a few potions, hardly a scar in sight. 

The bones were another matter altogether. The heat fractures caused by magical fire made them much more difficult to heal. Each bone was technically all in one piece now, no longer shattered, but the magical heat fractures persisted, showing up as silvery cracks whenever Madame Pomfrey performed her diagnostic spells. While his muscles were healed, the magical fractures resisted, keeping them from attaching to his bones like they needed to. Draco could hardly use his own arms. 

His hands had taken the brunt of the damage since they had been where the fire connected first. The bigger muscles in his forearms and upper arms had less trouble attaching, and he had gained some control over them. 

But while he had been able to cradle his few belongings in his arms, he could barely make his fingers twitch. 

“Be patient, Mr. Malfoy,” Pomfrey had said. Patience didn’t come easily when Draco thought of Potter and his out-of-control magic and the piano. 

Granger was still looking at him. “It’s my arms,” he finally offered. “It doesn’t hurt, but he—I mean, I can’t— I just need—” He closed his eyes, unable to finish whatever it was that he was trying to say. 

“You need some sleep,” Granger replied eventually. “Wouldn’t want to be late for that appointment with the soft bed in your dorm room, would you?” 

Draco peeled his eyes open gratefully. “Exactly.” She nodded, then tilted her head towards the staircase and began walking. He followed. 

Half an hour later, he wasn’t sure whether he should be embarrassed or feel grateful for Hermione Granger. She had gotten him back to his room, set his things down, then pointed her wand at him and told him to trust her. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do, unable as he was to even pick up his wand if he wanted to defend himself, so he nodded. She cast a series of cleaning and freshening charms, transfigured his clothing into a pair of soft pajamas, and sent his shoes flying to the proper place on the rack. She hadn’t asked him a single question, waiting until he’d sat on his bed to speak again.

“Draco… For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that he did this. He’s always preaching about the war being over, but this, I can’t believe him—”

Draco felt the strange urge to laugh. Even Potter’s friends thought he’d attacked Draco. “Hermione,” he silently congratulated himself on using her first name on the first attempt, “This wasn’t his fault. Make sure he knows that, will you? The only thing he’s guilty of is being a self-sacrificing, noble git that’s avoided me for the last four days.”

He only realized after she left that he’d implied that other than the last four days, they’d been doing the opposite of avoiding each other. Draco wasn’t sure if Potter had kept their nightly rendezvous a secret from the rest of the Golden Trio, but he supposed that sending Granger down to check on him was a clear enough clue that something was going on. 

Draco lay in the dark for a while, hating Potter for not having the guts to be the one to come down and check on him himself, missing Potter’s jokes as they made their way to the piano room, wishing that he could have the strength to carry a sleeping Potter back to his room in his arms.

At the first tickle of Potter’s magic, Draco sprang out of bed, stumbling as he tried to disentangle himself from his bedsheets without his hands. He swore as he stubbed his toe on a bedpost, hobbling the rest of the way to the door. Gritting his teeth, he stared down at the door handle, wishing his hands would obey his command to  _ reach up, turn it. _

Potter was standing right outside his door now, his magic overwhelming in force. It swirled with guilt, self-loathing, regret. Draco leaned his forehead against the soft wood, closing his eyes. “Harry Potter,” he whispered, relaxing in the presence of the tumultuous magic dancing around him. 

He imagined Potter standing on the other side, staring at the door and somehow looking worse than he had that first morning in the hospital wing. “Door, Potter,” Draco said, loud enough to be heard. Potter’s magic stuttered at his voice, going blank with surprise. “Please, Potter, open the door,” he said. He may be a Malfoy, but he was not above begging, not now. 

Draco asked again and again, but the knob never turned, the door never opened. He kicked at the wood a couple times, asked nicely, tried focusing and doing wandless magic, shouted a bit, called him some colorful names. Nothing. Draco gave up eventually, and they stood there, on either side of the door, silent and stuck. 

_ It’s not your fault, _ Draco thought, then decided to say it, even if Potter had already heard it from him and Granger. “It’s not your fault.” Potter didn’t reply. 

He stayed near the door even after Potter left, listening as he opened the door to his own room, right beside Draco’s. Draco focused on the feeling of Potter’s magic, still detectable through the walls. He made his way back to his bed, climbing into it and arranging the bedding over him as best he could. 

When the feeling of Potter’s magic became muffled, Draco thought about the list of magic-containing wards on Potter’s nightstand, and the destroyed bed that he’d seen that first night, and the glowing marks that peeked out from Potter’s collar. Another spell joined the first, and another, and within minutes, Draco couldn’t feel Potter’s magic at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A regular posting schedule? What’s that?
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and especially all the comments, they keep me going :)


	11. Trust

The experience of waking up to Weasley’s face a few centimeters from his own was not one that Draco would remember fondly. It was a bit overwhelming, really—that many freckles and that much red hair. Halfway immobilized and still blearily blinking awake, Draco just groaned.

“Weasel.”

“Ferret,” Weasley replied, far too cheerful. 

“No,” Draco said, not really sure what exactly he was objecting to. Weasley’s presence as a whole, perhaps. The cheer, the apparent civility. The sinking realization that he was likely there to  _ help _ Draco.

Draco rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Weasley tutted. “Come on, up you get. Wouldn’t want to be late for breakfast, would we?”

“Not hungry.” It would have been a brilliant lie, really, if his stomach hadn’t chosen that precise moment to growl. 

“Obviously not,” Weasley poked him. “Up. Food. Now.”

He almost considered complying, but then a horrible mental image crossed his mind of Weasley spoon-feeding Draco his breakfast. Draco shuddered. “Can’t exactly eat right now, can I?”

“‘Mione is already on top of it, mate. She guessed that you’ve been drinking some sort of nutrient potion, since you can’t use your hands?” Draco nodded against the pillow, ignoring how weird it was to be called ‘mate’ by Ron Weasley and fretted about by Hermione Granger. “She’s getting it sorted with Pomfrey. In the meantime, you need—to—get—up,” Weasley said, poking at him between each of his last words. 

“Alright, already! Get your grubby fingers off me!” Draco sat up with a huff. “Merlin, not all of us are as obsessed with food as you are.”

“I’m the one doing you a favor, here.” Ah, there was the irritation that Draco was so used to. It was refreshing to hear. Draco reveled in it for a moment before conceding that Weasley also had a point. He couldn’t exactly ask anyone else to help him get to class that morning—his Slytherin friends hadn’t returned for their eighth year and nearly everyone else at the school hated him. Golden Trio it was, then. But he was slowly waking up, coming to his senses, and first—

“Why?” Draco asked as he stood, drawing himself up to full height. He wanted to brush his hair back, but his arms felt even stiffer than they had before his full night of restless sleep. He tossed his head to at least get his bangs out of his eyes, then leveled his chin at Weasley. “Why are you helping me?”

“Merlin knows,” Weasley muttered, casting cleansing and grooming charms at him. A quick spell exchanged his pajamas for a pair of fresh robes. Weasley turned and grabbed Draco’s book bag from the desk, shoving textbooks in at random. He turned back to Draco and pulled up short.

Draco hated it. He wanted to put up an act and treat the situation as though he had gained a house elf at his beck and call, but he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t bring himself to parade around Hogwarts this year like the haughty, unrepentant yet “reformed” Prince of Slytherin that everyone expected him to be. 

He was repentant and he was really reformed, but that didn’t mean he could just forget his past and move on. Draco knew that. Better to stay quiet and out of everyone’s way. Any toe out of line would spark every hateful fire that he’d spent all of term trying to stamp out. 

And now, Weasley was helping him. For all he knew, Draco’s injuries had come from an attack on Potter. Or perhaps Weasley thought that Potter had attacked Draco—Draco, the ex-Death Eater— first. Either way, Draco stood there, fully awake and intimately aware of how wholly undeserving he was.

“Why?” Draco repeated.

The Weasel swallowed visibly, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I trust Harry,” he said after a pause. That at least suggested that he wasn’t helping out of second-hand guilt. “And Harry cares about you.”

That hit Draco like a ton of bricks. He didn’t even care about the way Weasley had said it with that unattractive wrinkling his nose. _ Potter cared about him. _ The feeling was reciprocated, of course—if that wasn’t already obvious from weeks worth of soothing him to sleep—and he might have known it objectively, but to hear it come from Weasley’s mouth… it somehow made it real. Believable. 

“How much do you know?” Draco had to ask. There were clearly  _ things to know _ about the situation if Potter was asking his friends to look after his ex- school rival, but Draco didn’t know how much he’d clued Weasley and Granger in on. 

“I know that Harry cares about you,” Weasley repeated, “And that you’re hurt and need our help.”

“That’s it?” Draco asked. It was that simple?

Weasley shrugged. “If the war taught me anything, it was that Harry’s got good instincts. So yeah, that’s it.”

_ Noble, self-sacrificing instincts that nearly get him killed half the time, _ Draco amended mentally. But okay, he could accept that answer. Draco had grown up since the war ended. Granger had proven to have dropped plenty of her nosy pre-war habits, not prying at all the night before. Maybe Weasley had matured, too.

Weasley clearly hadn’t gotten over his fixation for breakfast, though, as evidenced by the way his eyes kept sliding toward the door. Draco broke, finally. “Alright, Weasel, let’s go eat.” 

Weasley went to hand him his bookbag, then stopped, holding it halfway awkwardly. “Er— it’s your arms, right? Do they hurt?”

“No. They just refuse to do what I tell them to. They’re healing, but weak.” 

With a thoughtful narrowing of his eyes, Weasley stepped forward and draped the strap of the bag over Draco’s shoulder. “Is that okay, then?” 

“Yes,” Draco said, and it was. Better than okay, if he was being honest. It didn’t hurt—which was the answer to Weasley’s question— but it went deeper than that. His life had been turned upside down in the last few days, and even with the unresolved issues still at hand (Potter, his arms), this was good. He felt the most normal that he had in a while, dressed in his school robes, about to get breakfast, bag over his shoulder, and heading to class later. 

“Do you need anything else?” Merlin, even the imminent promise of food wasn’t enough to distract Weasley from the task at hand. Draco was impressed. He casted his gaze around his room, double checking. 

“Those scrolls on the nightstand, the ones with the exercises on them? And my wand, please.” Even if he couldn’t actually use it, he felt better keeping it with him. Weasley tucked the items into the side pocket of Draco’s bag and they headed out the door. 

It was strange, walking with Weasley to breakfast. Draco was used to getting up early, sneaking down back hallways, nipping into the kitchens for a bite of food, and heading to class at the last possible second. Instead, the corridors were busy, and Weasley led him down the main ones towards the Great Hall. Pairs of curious eyes followed them. They received more questioning looks than accusatory glares, but Weasley treated them all equally, acting like a guard dog, staring down anyone that so much as glanced their way. 

Draco had no idea how to handle it. He opted for not handling it at all and went along with it, acting like it was perfectly normal to be walking to breakfast with Ron Weasley, where they would presumably meet Hermione Granger and sit down to eat together. His mind derailed onto its favorite track as of late—would Potter be there? Was Potter alright? Draco regarded Weasley carefully. He probably knew.  _ Harry cares about you, _ echoed through his mind. Well, Draco cared about him too. 

“How is he?” Draco asked. Weasley scoffed under his breath, looked up at the ceiling. 

“Absolutely brilliant.”

“That bad?”

“He claims he wasn’t hurt in… whatever happened,” Weasley said, glancing at Draco before focusing on the ground. “But he’s not making it very easy to believe him. Seems hurt, but won’t let us check him over or anything. Avoids us as much as possible. You’ll see, I guess.”

“Will I?” Draco hadn’t seen Potter since the night in the hospital wing and hadn’t sensed his magic since the night before. All that he’d been able to see was the avoidance bit that Weasley had mentioned. 

Weasley could only shrug helplessly. They walked in silence for a moment. 

“It wasn’t a fight,” Draco said quietly. He wasn’t about to spill all of his secrets about Potter, but he felt an inexplicable need to set the record straight on this. “It was an accident. I didn’t attack him and he didn’t attack me.”

The expression on Weasley’s face was hard to name. “That’s what Harry says, too.” He pushed open the door to the Great Hall, holding it open for Draco. With a deep breath, Draco walked through.

\--

Harry stepped into the Great Hall, eyes landing on Malfoy immediately. He was getting settled at the Gryffindor table with Ron, a source of unrest for all of the other students in the Hall. They shifted in their seats, whispering amongst themselves and throwing curious looks towards the pair. 

It wasn’t so much that a Slytherin was eating at the Gryffindor table—House tables were more of a formality than anything, these days. McGonagall had encouraged intermingling at meals in the name of House Unity, only requiring students to actually sit with their houses at holiday feasts. 

No, the issue was that Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley were sitting together, talking quietly. Ron actually  _ laughed _ at something Malfoy said, then reached over and took the bag from Malfoy’s shoulder, setting it on the ground behind them. Their audience tittered. 

Harry walked towards them. He could see the exact instant that Malfoy sensed that he was there, watching as he froze, everything stiff. Ron saw it too, furrowing his eyebrows and leaning towards Malfoy, whispering something. Malfoy replied, then Ron turned to face Harry, a hesitant smile breaking across his face. He turned back to Malfoy and whispered something else. Malfoy nodded, still facing the table. Then he turned, facing Harry. 

They took each other in for a moment, emotions swirling between them. Worry. Relief. Guilt from Harry, anger from Malfoy. 

Harry worked his way around the table, feeling Malfoy’s gaze on him the entire way. He sat across from the pair of them. “Morning,” he tried, wincing internally. As if he could just greet them normally. As if this was a normal situation to be in. Malfoy just looked at him. 

“Morning,” Ron said. They had barely gotten through the greetings and it already felt like a dead end to the conversation. They sat there awkwardly for a moment, Harry avoiding Malfoy’s eyes and Ron shifting uncomfortably. 

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked. 

“She was talking to Pomfrey—actually, speak of the devil, there she is.” Hermione was striding across the Great Hall to their table, bag over her shoulder. As she reached them, her narrowed eyes indicated that she had taken note of the tense atmosphere of the group. She slid into the seat next to Malfoy.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them, setting her things down. She looked around the Hall, noticing the renewed attention the group had since her arrival. Harry imagined the headlines:  _ The Golden Trio Extends Olive Branch to Ex-Death Eater. _ Drawing her wand, Hermione cast a  _ Muffliato  _ and the conversations around them faded to a soft hum. A mild  _ Notice Me Not _ charm was enough to get most people to stop watching them. “That’s better.” 

The three boys looked at her, all too happy to let her take the lead in this new, weird dynamic they had. She grabbed a cup and began pouring pumpkin juice into it, then raised her eyebrows at them. “Well?” They snapped to it, Ron and Harry piling food onto their plates. 

She turned to Malfoy. “Madame Pomfrey gave me a nourishing potion for you to take instead of eating. She said that we could just pour it into a drink because the taste is a bit foul on its own. It goes tasteless when mixed, though.” Hermione turned to rifle through her bag, emerging with a vial full of a sickly yellow liquid. 

“Thank you.” Malfoy wrinkled his nose at it. “She never let me mix it with anything else in the hospital wing, but maybe she just wanted me to suffer.”

Hermione chuckled. “I can testify that she was  _ not _ very happy about discharging you.”

“I barely escaped,” Malfoy said. 

“Really though, I don’t know what she was thinking, keeping you for so long. Everything but your arms were fine after a day, weren’t they? That’s no reason to keep you from classes. We have NEWTs approaching.”

“A sucker for gossip, that one, and I wouldn’t give her any,” Malfoy said with a wry grin. 

Hermione pushed the cup of pumpkin juice towards him, then uncorked the vial. She stopped. “Harry?” 

Harry stared at her, then looked down.  _ Oh. _ His hand was around her wrist, keeping her from pouring the potion. With a very conscious command, he uncurled his fingers one by one, releasing her. 

He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” Oh, Merlin, he could feel a blush taking over his face. Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy were all staring at him. “Sorry, it’s just, er— Malfoy doesn’t like pumpkin juice.”

“I don’t?” It was the first thing Malfoy had said to him since he sat down. 

Harry grabbed a cup, then reached for the coffee pot. “I— well, no. There was that time—third year, I think— Parkinson switched out your orange juice for pumpkin juice and you nearly vomited all over the table. Hilarious, honestly, but it was obvious—” Harry cut himself off, face burning even more than before. He held out the cup of coffee that he had poured—milky with a dash of cinnamon. Weird way to drink coffee, if anyone was asking Harry, but it was how Malfoy liked it. “Here.”

There was an awkward beat. Malfoy could only look down at the cup Harry held outstretched. Ron’s mouth was slightly open in disbelief. Hermione had her puzzle-solving face on, looking back and forth between the two. Finally, Hermione reached out, took the cup and set it in front of Malfoy. 

Right. Malfoy couldn’t move his arms. 

“Malfoys never  _ vomit,  _ Potter,” Malfoy was saying, but Harry wasn’t listening. 

Malfoy couldn’t move his arms because of Harry. 

Hermione was pouring the potion into Malfoy’s coffee. Ron conjured a metal straw and stuck it into the cup, making some sort of joke. Hermione laughed. 

Harry was dangerous to be around. 

Merlin, what was he even doing in the Great Hall? He was planning on attending  _ classes _ that day. What had he been thinking? He remembered waking up to the shout of his name, seeing Malfoy sprawled across the ground, limbs at strange angles, bloodied and burnt. That had happened while he was  _ asleep;  _ who knew what could happen even when he was awake? He had such little control over his magic these days. 

A sharp kick to his shins brought him back to the present. Malfoy was looking pointedly at him. He realized his silverware was rattling violently against the table. With some difficulty, he concentrated on it, trying to reign his magic back in. His fork and knife stilled. 

Horrified, Harry stood. He had to get out of there. 

“Harry?” Hermione asked, a nervous edge to her voice. He ignored her. He had tried, and it hadn’t worked, and now he had to leave.

Grabbing his bag, Harry fled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some angst for your Saturday :)


	12. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry it’s been literally forever since my last update! I got pretty stuck with the plot and overwhelmed with school, but we’re back up and running :)

Hermione raised a disapproving eyebrow at Draco. “Is that  _ really _ what you’re eating for dinner?” 

Draco looked down at his plate. It was weird, being something like friends with her. She made for an excellent study partner, but also did things like question his food choices. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Give him a break, ‘Mione,” Ron chimed in. “He hasn’t eaten a normal meal in over a week.”

“And you really think that apple sauce with mashed potatoes is a normal meal?”

“What else was I supposed to eat?” Draco asked, incredulous. 

“Some protein, or vegetables, or fruit, or literally anything nutritious at all,” Hermione replied, gesturing to the spread of food on the table in front of them. “Plenty of other options.”

“Those foods aren’t  _ soft,  _ Hermione,” Draco said, his words dripping with condescension. Very deliberately, of course; it was the easiest way to rile Hermione up. Sure enough, her eyes caught fire. 

“Your _ arms  _ are broken, Draco, not your  _ jaw.” _ Oh, she could do condescension, too. This was fun. 

“My arms aren’t broken, they have heat fractures.” He arched an eyebrow at her, matching the one she still had raised. 

“And you expect them to heal properly on this diet?”

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to eat? I can barely hold a fork, let alone cut through that steak,” Draco pointed out. 

“We can  _ help you,  _ of course,” Hermione said, properly exasperated. 

“Also, that’s disgusting, mate,” Ron chimed in, wrinkling his nose at Draco’s plate. Honestly, Draco could agree. The apple sauce had spread out, pooling in the middle to mix with the mashed potatoes. Ron snorted as Draco tried pushing it back to its own half of the plate. 

“Alright,” Draco sighed, his own smile peeking in at the corners of his lips. “I suppose you have a point.” He set down his spoon in defeat. 

_ I told you so,  _ Hermione’s expression said, but she had the good grace to not actually say anything. Pulling out her wand, she vanished the contents of his plate, levitated a steak onto it, and began cutting it into small pieces. 

Draco thought about how lucky Potter was to have friends like these. 

Potter. 

Draco was sick of Potter’s shit. 

It had been two weeks since Draco was released from the hospital wing, and he was starting to feel like he had replaced the Boy Who Lived. After a mysterious injury (a commonplace occurrence for Potter), he was calling Granger and Weasley by their first names (the  _ horror,  _ but Draco didn’t want to endure another morning of Stinging Hexes every time he said the word “Weasel”, so he’d finally acquiesced), and every waking hour was spent in the company of Potter’s sidekicks (he’d even started collaborating on homework with Hermione and playing chess with Ron). 

The rest of the student body seemed confused by it all, but ultimately took it in stride. At the beginning of the term, they might have reacted differently—in those days, Potter still had an overly-enthusiastic fan club that hounded his every step—but it had been several months since the war ended. With two-thirds of the Golden Trio at his back, Draco stepped back into the limelight, no longer forced to ghost through the halls of Hogwarts like a shadow.

Draco caught up on schoolwork, answered questions in class, and ate meals in the Great Hall. Everything was fine. 

Except for Potter. 

He was nowhere to be found. If Draco focused on it—and to be honest, he was always focusing on it—he could sometimes sense Potter’s magic dancing at the edge of his periphery, just out of reach. Potter wasn’t at classes, at meals, in the hospital wing, the library, nor the piano room. 

Nighttime was the only time that Draco was sure that he knew where Potter was. Some time after dark, Draco would feel Potter rush past his room to reach his own. The  _ slam!  _ his door made always made Draco jump. He’d rush to action, tripping over himself as he went to the door. His arms were strong enough to open the door, now, but only just; sometimes, it took a couple attempts to coax the handle to turn. The stone floor was always cold against his bare feet as he’d race to Potter’s door. It was always locked and within seconds, the feeling of Potter’s magic would be shrouded with wards, hiding it from Draco’s senses. 

Before the magic disappeared, though, it never failed to worry him. It was in writhing disarray, a bundle of anxiety and fear. It felt dangerous.

One of these days, he mused, he was going to break down Potter’s goddamn door. He’d recently been able to pick up his wand and was slowly regaining basic casting power. A nice Blasting Curse would do the charm. 

He couldn’t help but feel like with every morsel of strength that he gained back, Potter was losing one. The last time that he’d seen Potter—at breakfast, the morning after he’d been discharged from the hospital wing—Potter was a wreck. An absolute mess, and looked like he didn’t even realize it. 

Every ounce of his focus had been on Draco, but unconsciously, he’d been moving slowly. Carefully, like everything hurt. Like if he accidentally bumped his elbow or stubbed his toe, he’d crumple. Draco had thought he looked terrible that first night in the hospital wing, but his post-discharge breakfast was dozens of times worse. He couldn’t imagine how bad—how  _ broken _ — Potter looked now. 

He’d tried asking Ron and Hermione how Potter was, but they either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell him.  _ He probably needs space,  _ Hermione would say.  _ Give it time, mate, _ Ron would say. As if they were having a lovers’ spat. (Not that he would particularly  _ mind _ having that sort of relationship with Potter, if he thought about it, but this was a much bigger problem than that.)

It confused him at first, but eventually Draco realized that neither of them knew how volatile Potter and his magic had gotten. They couldn’t have known, or they’d be trying to fix it. With each passing day, Draco reconsidered whether he should tell them. On the one hand, Potter could get hurt if he let this go on for too long. On the other… Draco was strangely flattered that Potter had trusted him with something that Ron and Hermione didn’t know. He was hesitant to break that trust.

So for the last couple weeks, Draco had been stuck with how things were, playing nice with Ron and Hermione, ignoring Potter’s absence, and pretending like everything was alright. But he’d had enough.

After dinner, he worked on his Potions essay with Hermione, quietly whispering to the Dictation Quill that Hermione had cleverly charmed herself when they couldn’t find one in a single Hogsmeade shop. He let Ron talk him into a few games of Wizard’s Chess, but lost half of them, distractedly planning as he played. When it was late enough that going off to bed wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, he excused himself. 

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” Hermione asked, eyebrows drawn together. He’d been able to perform the necessary spells to get ready for bed for a couple days now, but it didn’t seem to stop her from still worrying over him. 

“I’m sure,” he said, concentrating on an  _ Accio _ on his book bag. It responded, albeit slower than usual, but he caught it with a triumphant grin. “See?”

She smiled back. “Alright. Holler if you need us.” 

Draco was already at the stairs. “Night!” 

“Night,” they both replied.

Draco walked into his room, dumped his bag on the bed, and walked back out. It was time to talk to Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my world go round, let me know what you think!!


	13. Kidnapping

Ten minutes into hiding in Potter’s bathroom, Draco had tried (and failed) to cast eight of the strongest silencing charms he knew. 

“So rude,” the mirror tutted at him when he threatened it with a  _ Reducto _ . Considering his success with the silencing charms, he wasn’t sure he could actually cast anything strong enough to even cause a crack. The mirror knew it too, judging by the way it kept taunting him. Draco also wasn’t sure he was above trying to shatter it with the nearest available object. 

Draco looked pointedly at the ceramic toothbrush holder sitting on the counter for the mirror’s benefit, hoping it would catch his drift. Then he was distracted by it, caught up in how utterly  _ Muggle  _ it was of him to still use a toothbrush. Wizarding children use them, of course, unable as they are to perform such precise magic before attending Hogwarts. But really, eighteen years old, defeater of the Dark Lord, and he still used a toothbrush. 

Then again, he really couldn’t blame Potter for his non-magical habits. After all, he’d had to suffer through a few of Ron’s teeth-cleansing charms himself. If Potter’s were anywhere near as bad (and Draco guessed that they were, seeing as the only things Potter had proven he could cast well were  _ Expelliarmus  _ and  _ Expecto Patronum _ ), Draco couldn’t blame him for sticking with the option that didn’t make his gums bleed.

“Not supposed to be in here,” the mirror said in a sing-song voice. Damn. He’d almost hoped that ignoring it would make it disappear. Or shut up, at least.

“I’m trying to  _ help  _ him,” Draco said, glaring at his own reflection.

A beat of silence passed.

“Rather thin these days,” the mirror said.

Draco swallowed. Potter had always been thin enough already.

“Won’t drink his potions,” the mirror said. 

Draco made a mental note:  _ make Potter drink his potions _ . 

“Those marks, too…” the mirror mulled. 

Draco remembered the glimpses he’d gotten at glowing wounds peeking out from Potter’s collar and sleeves. 

“Alright,” the mirror said. 

“Alright,” replied Draco, letting out a breath. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, and the entire ordeal, prudent as it was, was grating on his Slytherin instinct. There was nowhere to hide in Potter’s tiny en-suite, so he sat on the floor behind the door. When Potter walked in to freshen up before going to bed, Draco figured he’d try to close the door behind him, trapping him inside and forcing a conversation. 

Draco thought about all those nights spent with Potter, the easy banter they’d fallen into. Sitting at a piano bench, fingers dancing over the keys, and Potter’s magic slowly quieting around him. Carrying Potter back to his room each night, setting his glasses on the bedside table and Invisibility Cloak on the hook by the door, turning the handle to soften the sound as he shut the door on his way out. 

Draco thought about the night in the piano room, the floating furniture, fire, and Potter. The panic of the moment, of the sight of Potter much too high in the air, no idea how to get him down. The sadness he felt now, faced with the distinct  _ before  _ and  _ after  _ of that day. 

In hindsight, he decided that trapping himself into a small room with a jumpy wizard brimming with accidental magic wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. This revelation was in foresight, really, since Potter hadn’t appeared yet, but there was no going back now; Draco was committed. 

He didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head back against the cool tile, felt his shoulders slump, and let his eyes slip closed. 

Some time later, though Draco couldn’t begin to hazard a guess at how long he’d been asleep, he awoke abruptly to the sharp feeling of  _ fear _ . Pulling himself out of his sleepy haze, he picked apart  _ worry _ and  _ loneliness _ from the mess of emotions swirling around him. When he put his hands flat on the ground to push himself to his feet, he gulped at the feeling of magic pulsing through the floorboards. 

Potter. 

Heart pounding, Draco pressed his entire body against the wall, praying to Merlin that Potter wouldn’t see him until he was far enough inside the bathroom for Draco to trap him in. 

The door to the hallway creaked on its hinges as Potter pushed it open.

Was this a form of kidnapping? 

The door slammed shut with a wave of magic. 

_ Please stay quiet _ , Draco thought at the mirror. It twinkled menacingly. 

Footsteps shuffled around the room as Potter gathered his things for bed, opening and closing drawers as he rustled through clothing. 

_ Bloody hell, what if he comes in here  _ naked  _ to shower? _ Draco thought, not at all horrified by the idea except for the fact that Potter might not super appreciate getting pseudo-kidnapped whilst unclothed. 

More rustling. 

More shuffling. 

Then it all stopped. 

Slowly, he felt the muting of Potter’s magic as he put up his magic-blocking wards. 

_ Fucking absolute fuck _ . Draco’s mind raced. What was he going to do? Was Potter actually going to go to bed without brushing his teeth? All images of a naked Potter were banished from his mind, replaced by yellowing teeth and smelly breath. 

_ Focus, Draco _ , he thought, reminding himself that Potter currently had much larger issues than brushing his teeth. His rogue magic, for instance. 

As the last of Potter’s wards sealed in place, Draco found himself still frozen with indecision. What now? 

“Go on,” the mirror whispered. “Go fix him.”

Draco hesitated for another moment, unsure. His already frustratingly stupid plan had failed. He could… try to trap Potter in the bedroom itself if he blocked the outside door? Potter’s bed was to the left of the bathroom, and the door to the right. It would work. 

He stepped deftly around the bathroom door, then, without even a glance at the bed, he dashed to the door, throwing his back against it and arms out wide, preparing wildly for any kind of resistance to come his way. 

Instead, the room was dark, and he was met with utter silence. Had Potter left somehow without him realizing? He squinted into the room, trying to make Potter out on the bed. He couldn’t see clearly. After another moment of stillness, he cautiously abandoned his post by the door, walking towards the bed with soft footsteps. 

It was empty. He cursed in his head. How had Potter known he was there? Why hadn’t he said anything?

Something rustled behind him and Draco spun immediately to face the threat. At first, he couldn’t see anything, but then he directed his gaze downward. 

Potter lay dead asleep on the floor in the corner on the other side of the room, all the nearby furniture pushed away from him. He had only a pillow and a threadbare blanket covering him. 

Now that Draco was looking, he wondered how he hadn’t sensed the bubble of magic surrounding Potter. It was so thick around him that Draco could see the edges of where it was contained by Potter’s wards. 

He was halfway to Potter before he knew what he was doing, pausing at the edge of the wards. He reached a slow finger out to poke at the boundary. Instantly, he felt the rush of  _ magic _ and  _ feeling _ that he was so used to feeling around Potter. Draco withdrew his finger and shivered. Now or never, he supposed. 

Draco stepped into the wards—designed to keep magic in, not keep people out— with a quick glance to make sure that Potter was still asleep. He almost stumbled under the immediate crushing weight of Potter’s magic, thick in the air. Gaining his balance, he crossed the last couple steps to Potter’s side. Draco sank to the floor beside him. 

“Potter,” he whispered, dismayed. Potter was in tatters. Sunken cheeks, scraggly hair, too-bony limbs, and brows furrowed even in sleep. He was curled into himself. His fingers twitched. Every now and then, he shivered against the cool stone floor. 

“What have you done?” Draco asked Potter quietly, unworried about waking him. He’d always been such a deep sleeper (or very good at pretending), never waking once as Draco carried him back to the dorms after their piano sessions. Besides, Draco could simply monitor Potter’s magic instead. 

It would be all too easy, considering how concentrated Potter’s magic was. There was so  _ much _ ; Draco hadn’t realized it was possible for a wizard’s core to even contain this much magic in the first place, let alone to have this much seeping out without killing the wizard. 

Although, by the looks of Potter, it  _ was _ killing him. 

Draco felt horribly guilty. Why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he realized how bad it had gotten? Why hadn’t he pestered Ron and Hermione more, gotten them to check on Potter?

Unthinkingly, Draco reached for Potter’s hand, holding it between two of his own. 

Wait. Was that—? Draco turned Potter’s hand over, examining the back. A brightly glowing mark dashed across the entire back of Potter’s hand. Draco leaned closer, staring at it.  _ Here _ was where Potter’s magic was coming from! Well—not just there, since his magic was coming from all over him, but here, on the back of his hand, Draco could sense it bleeding out in a steady stream. 

Draco thought about the similar marks he’d seen on Potter’s neck, the way Potter had worn long clothing every day that term, no matter the weather. 

After a moment of consideration, Draco brushed a gentle finger along the edge of the mark, then covered the entire thing with his hand.  _ Stop the bleeding _ , he thought. 

He could feel the flow of magic below his fingers began to slow. Excited, he pressed harder on Potter’s hand. The magic subsided to a trickle, then stopped completely. He pulled his hand away, then gaped at the results. 

The mark was entirely gone. 

Draco had—he’d  _ touched _ the mark and it had _ disappeared _ , just like that. The magic seeping out, Potter’s deplenishing core, Draco had stopped the effects. All of Potter’s marks—the pain that Draco suspected he was in because of them—all of it could go away if—

“Draco?”

Horrified, Draco dragged his eyes away from the unmarred skin of the hand he still held in his own. Potter’s eyes, vivid green even in the dark, stared back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday, y'all :)
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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